To Touch The Stars
by musicbendr
Summary: Alex is a resident of Havenwood, a very strict religious community. But things change when a traumatized Mitchie Torres moves in from a sister camp. More inside. WARNINGS: Femslash, violence, swear words, adult themes, angst. CHAPTER 18 IS AN AUTHOR NOTE.
1. Whipped

**Summary: Alex is a resident of Havenwood, a religious community that restricts almost all aspects of its residents' lives. Alex is unsatisfied and rebellious, planning to make her escape. But things become somewhat less black-and-white when traumatized Mitchie Torres is relocated to Havenwood from Cascadia, a sister camp on the West Coast. **

**A/N: I don't know if the violence/themes in here are inappropriate for the T rating, but if they are, please tell me because I'm not sure.  
**

_God is good_

_God is great_

_Satan is the one that we should hate_

_God is good_

_God is great_

_Satan is the one that we should hate_

If I have to chant that stupid poem one more time I might kill myself before my mother can. She's upset at me today because I asked a question in Sunday services earlier this morning. As much as you're not supposed to ask questions during the rest of the services, this one is especially forbidden. According to the Shepherds, Sunday (the seventh day) is the day that God rested, so God wants everyone to rest on that day, too, which means using our brains even less than usual. I think that's a load of shit, because come on- how do we know that our Sunday is God's Sunday? I mean, what if God rested on what was our Tuesday and some idiot 2000 years screwed up the calendar system? It's entirely possible and extremely likely. So I've decided to practice the Sabbath on Tuesdays now which, coincidentally, is the day we have to do hard labor. When I told my mother this, she screamed some more at me, then told me to go and see my father. She _never_ tells me to go and see my father at work unless I've performed one of the Cardinal Atrocities. There's only seven and I've broken six of them. The seventh one is going to be slightly difficult because it requires a willing participant. For future reference, I'll tell them to you now.

_1. The sin of fornication and all activities related to it are strictly forbidden_ _outside of officially sanctioned child creation _(the only one I haven't broken)

_2. Do not question anything in the Bible_

_3. Do not question anything the Shepherds say_

_4. Never tell a lie_

_5. Any female will not question the judgment of a male that is equal to or older than her in age_

_6. All residents must perform one of the Blessed Sacrifices at least once a day_

_7. Everyone must create themselves in the image of either the Mother or the Father_

The Mother and the Father are the big-wigs here, the leading Shepherds. For as long as I've been alive, it's been Arnie and Eloise. They're crazier, and apparently stricter than the people who were around when my parents grew up. This, according to nearly everyone in the compound, is a good thing. I think it's bullshit. Swearing, in case you're wondering, isn't one of the Cardinal Atrocities, but it's severely frowned upon so naturally I do it as much as possible.

I've almost made it to my father's work (janitor in the Shepherds' Sanctuary) because I know that if I don't it'll be ten times worse. I really hate this stupid compound with all its rules, especially Cardinal Atrocity number 5. That's the one I break the most- OK, the one I get caught for the most. I break the one about lying multiple times a day. My father dislikes me breaking number 5 the most, obviously, because it undermines his authority. Not like I really give a shit about his authority to begin with.

So here I am, waiting at the desk of the Shepherds' Sanctuary. The receptionist Margaret knows me by name and calls my father when she sees me enter. I hate coming here not only because I only I'm going to get disciplined, but also because it's just so, so dull. The room, I mean. There's next to nothing in it; the floor is wood, the walls are this hideous maroon, there's all sorts of Jesus paraphernalia everywhere and then there's Margaret's desk, which is made out of a rather light colored wood and has nothing on it but a phone. There are no computers allowed here because it's so hard to regulate them, but we do have radio (which only picks up waves from our own station produced here in the compound). We learn about all the modern advances and why they're evil, but we've never experienced their evilness first hand. I think that's a really stupid strategy- in fact, that was the first time I got in trouble for committing one of the Cardinal Atrocities. The time when I questioned the reason why we couldn't see just how evil those things were. I got thrown out of the room and had to meet with one of the Enforcers, who beat me 14 times with a belt- you got one lash for each Cardinal Atrocity (even if you only broke one) and one for each year of age. I was seven. Clearly it had very little effect on me.

"Alexandra," Margaret said, calling me over.

"It's Alex." That had become an automatic response over the years; I much preferred Alex over the prim and proper Alexandra. But no one seemed to be interested in my individuality. What a shock.

She ignored me. "Your father will be here momentarily. Please have a seat, if you-"

"Margaret, I know the rules. I've been here too many times to count," I told her. "I'll go plop my ass on that chair-"

"Language!"

I just rolled my eyes at her and went over to the cold, uninviting wooden chairs they had set up in the corner. My father usually yelled at me for about 12 seconds and then sent me to the Enforcers, standing there watching me the whole way out. He wasn't allowed to miss work for more than a minute and a half for me anymore- usually family emergencies warrant ten minutes, but since I'm in here so often, our time was shortened.

As expected, my father rolled in huffing and puffing and looking extremely angry. He was dressed in his standard issue janitor's jumpsuit, which I looked at with envy. Hey, it was better than the hideous, flat, boring, totally-not-sexy-at-all cotton dresses all the girls had to wear. Today, mine was puke green. And absolutely more atrocious than normal. The puke green is even worse than the dirt brown, which is worse than the sky blue.

"Alexandra Russo!" My father's voice boomed through the tiny room, causing Margaret to shake her desk with a start. Wuss. "Don't-"

"'-you ever think about doing this again! Don't you know what I go through every day to support this family!'" I finished his speech for him, arms crossed. "I already now the speech, Dad. Now slap me or whatever and send me to the Enforcers."

He stares at me, eyes completely not believing what he's seeing. I've never called him out like this before and I don't think he likes it, which just makes me smile. This makes him even more upset. "Just go, Alexandra! Get out of my sight!" He wanders away, muttering to himself. "God, I pray for more guidance on Alexandra. And I thank You for this test You have given; I just hope that I have the strength to pass." As much as I don't want to admit it, his remark stings a little bit. I don't look up at him as he retreats back to the bowels of the building.

"I'll tell the Enforcers to be waiting for you," Margaret says after a moment. It jolted me back to earth and back to my normal attitude.

I get up from the chair, a snarky smirk on. "Tell them I want Damien. He's my favorite."

Margaret doesn't really know what to make of me- most people don't bring up the topic of the Enforcers ever, and next to no one is on a first name basis with them. I like Damien the best because he doesn't try to teach me a lesson with his words and then his whip- just with his whip. Everyone else tries to quote passages and spit the Word at me, but Damien understands that the beating, the quoting don't really affect me. He hates me with more of a passion than any of the other Enforcers, I think, and he whips me extra hard for it. However, it's better in my opinion to have the lashes a bit harder than to have to listen to an hour spiel about Job because for some reason they _always_ read me the Job story. Always. Maybe that's the story they read to everyone.

I arrived at the Enforcers portion of the compound, which is basically a bunch of barracks and a wall of whip. In general the procedure is to lean your forehead against the walls and lift your shirt up so that the Enforcer can hit your bare back. Of course it hurts- but I don't let them see.

"Hello, Damien," I say pleasantly as I spot him in the corner, looking very ready to kick my ass. "How are you doing today?" He doesn't speak to me; he never does. "I'm in here for breaking the third Cardinal Atrocity and it's 23 lashes." I assume the position against the wall. "Lay it on me, tough guy."

Damien wastes no time in coming up behind me and getting his whip out. He steps up behind me and makes an intimidating grunting noise. Here we go.

One.

"So, I heard you got engaged."

Two.

"Congratulations."

Three.

"I always thought you crazy kids would make it."

Four.

"Have you decided on a date yet?"

Five.

"I think you'd do better with a winter wedding."

Six.

"You could have it in the church."

Seven.

"And then move outside."

Eight.

"With all the snow here, it will be beautiful."

Nine.

"Do you ever talk, Damien?"

Ten.

"Even to your wife?"

Eleven.

"That must be a strange relationship."

Twelve.

"Are you going to have kids?"

Thirteen.

"I guess it's kind of a law, so you have to."

Fourteen.

"I bet you want a boy."

Fifteen.

"You probably want a lot of boys."

Sixteen.

"I can see you, being that kind of dad.

Seventeen.

"You'll probably retire."

Eighteen.

"From the Enforcers."

Nineteen.

"And start-"

Twenty.

"A farm."

Twenty-one.

"It'll-"

Twenty-two.

"be-"

Twenty-three.

"nice."

I stand up and put my shirt down. Slowly collecting myself, I turn around and give Damien my biggest smile. "It was nice seeing you again, Damien." He grunts in response, but I can see a sick grin form on his face as he hangs the whip back up.

After I bid him farewell and safely clears the door, I run. I run and I keep going for as far as I can, until I find my favorite tree, the one with the orange spray paint still left-over from when loggers were going to cut down this forest. Oh, how I wish they did. Oh how I wish.

I lay down in the shade of the tree on my stomach because laying on my back might kill me. I do a good thirty second scan of the surrounding area and make sure that no one's around. And then, only then, do I let the tears drop from my eyes.


	2. Mitchie

"Alexandra! What are you doing down here! It's almost time for evening services!" My brother Justin rushes over to me in his good church clothes looking very panicked. "You can't be late again! You know what happens to stragglers!" Anyone who is late for services doesn't get to eat at whatever the next meal is, except for water.

I sigh, getting up and being careful not to touch my back to the ground as I do so. I wince slightly as I get up, guessing there are probably little bits of blood stains on my dress because Justin gasps as soon as he sees me standing. "You broke _another_ Cardinal Atrocity? Which one was it this time?"

"You were _there_, Justin," I tell him. "It was at morning services- right after we finished? And then Mom got even more upset just because I told her I wanted to celebrate the Sabbath on Tuesday-"

"You WHAT!" he thunders. I think he's more shocked than angry, mostly because it's nearly impossible for him to actually get angry. This puts him in the perfect position to be a Shepherd when he gets older, although I don't know if he'll be able to be strict enough to send people to the Enforcers.

I shrug. "Yeah. How do we know that the guy who invented the calendar system got it right?"

"Because God would oversee the making of His calendar and wouldn't let that guy make that mistake," Justin says matter-of-factly. He's so brainwashed, it's sad. Justin and I used to be very similar when it came to asking questions; he was so smart and logical that his brain couldn't wrap itself around the ridiculous "truths" we learn. If it wasn't for him, I would just be dissatisfied and lazy, not dissatisfied and rebellious. I never would've given that much thought to the Scriptures if he hadn't already begun to ask questions. So in a strange way I owe my sense of clarity to him. But he couldn't take the punishment of the Enforcers, and eventually he just followed all the rules like a good little boy. We began to drift apart at that moment; I feel as though my brother died when he was eight and all I have now is a little leftover shell. I don't like to dwell on that.

"Humans make mistakes, Justin."

"Not where God is involved."

I stare him down coldly. "Really? Was God involved in the Enforcers' barracks a couple of hours ago when they whipped me twenty-three times for asking a question? Where was God then?"

Justin moves his eyes to his twiddling thumbs. In them, I can see just how uncomfortable he is as he stutters out our motto: "God does what He has to do." Ever since we were young, we've been told that so we'll believe in God's grace no matter what. Shockingly, I think that's a load of horse shit. But that's just me.

I start to walk in the opposite direction, away from Justin and away from the main buildings of the compound.

"Where are you going?" he asks, but I don't turn around.

"The woods," I tell him.

"You'll miss the service- and then you won't get dinner," he says.

I stop in the shady trees, my eyes stinging with tears for what he's become. I turn to look at him, but I'm obscured by the darkness and so far away that he can't see these tears. "And then what, Justin? I'll get another lashing, I'll miss another meal. What more could possibly happen to me?"

"You could die," he says so quietly that I can barely hear him.

It almost fazes me, but not quite enough. "Yeah? Maybe that's not such a bad thing." I begin to walk back into the woods, but my brother's not ready to give up just yet.

"Wait! Alexandra!" He's yelling, screaming, desperate. "Just because... I... even through... You're still my sister."

"Yeah, well, you're not my brother," I spit back at him. "Not anymore."

"What?" I think that he's actually _upset_ over what I've said, like he doesn't even know what I'm talking about.

"You used to have beliefs. Principles. Standards. Now look at what you are." I expect him to start crying, but he seems to be weirdly stoic today.

To prove this, he answers in the most convicted, strong voice I've ever heard him use. "Beliefs can be changed."

"Or they can be beaten out of you." I don't allow him to say any more as I trudge off into the dark forest. I pick up speed while I go, and I can finally drown out his continuous drone of my name in the background.

Going this far into the forest is strictly forbidden because of all the "dangerous" animals. I've been coming into this forest since I was ten, and so far have not encountered anything more dangerous than a squirrel. There's not much back here, except solitude. I like it better that way because everyone out in the compound is either a total asshole or a complete coward. There's a very large part of me that suspects that if I'd been born somewhere that's not Havenwood, I would've been such a different person. I doubt I would be so interested in all of this religious stuff and I probably would've ended up being lazy or one of those "rebel without a cause" people we're so often warned about. That kind of scares me, but being here scares me, too.

I lie down on the ground, still on my stomach. My back has started to hurt again after my little impromptu run and I'm beginning to regret that. I wish there was someone in this stupid compound who gave a shit about me because going everything alone is tough. I have yet to meet a single person in here (besides eight-year-old Justin) who encourages me to be who I am or who is even capable of loving me- really loving me, not loving me because God wants them to. I know that it's beyond my parents capability to do anything like that, and the Mother and Father most certainly look at me as a black mark upon their record. No matter how many times they've beaten me or how many Bible verses they've read to me or how many exorcisms they've performed on me, I know that those aren't out of love. Well, not out of love for me. Out of their love and fear for God, believing me to be a test that they must pass. Everyone here thinks that healing me is a test they must pass to get into the Kingdom of Heaven or something equally as ridiculous. I think that's the only reason they haven't thrown me out yet.

My mind wanders to what I'd said to Justin earlier about dying: could it be much worse? Could Hell be any worse than here? At least I'd have some kindred spirits in Hell. The pain couldn't be much worse than that of Damien's whip. I can't go much hungrier than I already have. One year, when I was fourteen, I'd managed to go an entire week without any food, just water. It was the week leading up to Christmas, and this is the holiest week of the year according to our beliefs. It's called the Seven Days of Atonement. For the first six days, we do lots of backbreaking work and spend almost all other hours praying for forgiveness. On the seventh day (Christmas), we rest, just as God did. The Mother and Father say that one of the reasons it is proof that we have the correct version of Christianity because we celebrate Jesus' birthday as April 17, not December 25 like most other sects do. Out of protest, I did not eat anything that week. I stayed outside in the freezing cold winter wind in my tiny, inadequate coat and didn't attend any prayer services. It was torture, but it was worth it to see everyone's faces when I walked through the door to the prayer services on April 18. Plus, it makes almost every other punishment I receive seem somehow less intense.

I won't commit suicide, I decide. That would be pointless. Why would I have put myself in the line of suffering for so long only to end my life without accomplishing anything? It seems like martyr might be the next best option, but I'd have to have people believe in what I say before that would mean much of anything. Maybe I'll just _escape_. But that wouldn't work very well, either, because when I tried to escape last year I ended up with an even 50 lashes. I'd never gotten that many before and I think I might've passed out near the end. I didn't cry, though. Not in front of them, anyway. Afterwards, I assumed a position much like the one I'm in now and cried for hours. I did almost kill myself then, stuffing small clumps of dirt into my mouth in hopes of suffocating myself. But in the end, I vomited it back out, knowing that there had to be something better out there for me. I still hope there is. I really, really hope there is.

I get up from my fatigued nap with just enough time to make it back to the High Chapel for evening service. The High Chapel is closed at all times other than official services, but there's another chapel (the Prayer Chapel) that is always open for people to pray and seek spiritual advice from one of the Shepherds. As horrible as it will be to sit on that cold hard bench for two hours, I realize that I do need the food in my body in order to help heal my wounds.

Slipping into service is never easy, and it becomes much harder when you're a notorious criminal like me. I wriggle my way through the doors that the keepers are just closing, getting my back scraped against in the process. The unpolished wood sends slices of needle-sharp pain throughout my still raw wounds. God, it hurts so bad. I try to ignore the feeling as I take a seat in the back by myself. I see my parents and brothers sitting up front, looking perfectly coiffed in their best clothes. Everyone is in their best clothes. Everyone except for me. I am still wearing my puke green dress with blood stains and bits of dirt from the forest all over it.

The lead Shepherd today is Rosslyn, a woman in her mid-sixties. She was elected to be a Shepherd on her sixtieth birthday as is everyone who makes it to sixty. Most people here die around fifty-five, so if someone gets to sixty, they're supposed to have God's blessing for a longer life. There are other ways to become a Shepherd, of course. This is just the easiest. Rosslyn's sermon is on the infallibility of the Shepherds and the Bible. She's directing this at me certainly. Rosslyn really hates me, which is all fine and dandy because I can't stand her either. Whenever I break a rule and she's giving the sermon, she always makes sure to do it on whatever rule I've broken. That being said, this compound has been subjected to a lot of sermons on the infallibility of the Shepherds and the Bible.

She deviates briefly from this and makes a quick switch to the Cardinal Atrocities in general. "The Cardinal Atrocities are here for a reason. We all know that the deviant behaviors listed in them are horrible, horrible sins and that none of you, my flock, have the wisdom to interpret the Scriptures as the Shepherds do. Some of you"- her eyes bore gaping holes into mine as she says this- "may be confused as to why this is, but I can assure you it is for your own good. Most of the world is not equipped to handle the kind of spiritual enlightenment that is offered here as well as in our sister compounds of Cascadia and Treemont. But you- all of you- are able to recognize the deeper meanings that we present to you here. My friends, you truly are the Chosen." I roll my eyes. Nearly every service ends with us being told how special we are, just to boost up the egos of everyone in the compound. It doesn't work on me. I know I'm not "Chosen" or whatever, and that makes me proud.

Everyone else is proud to be Chosen as they all stand up and begin to chant, "Chosen! Chosen! Chosen! Chosen!" I remain seated, my mouth closed. I hate this chant even more than the "God is great" one. Rosslyn moves her hands up, causing the chanting to escalate. It's clear from the smile on her face that she's a narcissistic, sadistic little bitch, enjoying the worship she receives from the flock of clueless people in front of her. Eventually, she sweeps her hands down and like an orchestra conductor causes everyone to whisper, "Amen." This is the sign to leave the chapel, and I waste no time being the first one out.

I go into the Mess Hall, grab one of the pre-proportioned plates, and head over to our family's table. It is important to the Mother and Father that we eat our meals with our immediate families to encourage bonding. We are forbidden to leave the Mess Hall until forty-five minutes after each meal officially starts. It's the worse forty-five minutes of my day.

By the time the rest of my family comes over, I've already finished my mashed potatoes. The scene that ensues is very typical for us: my father yells, my mother sparingly lets out a disappointed sob, Justin interrupts my father with his own wisdom, and my younger brother Max sits and eats silently. Max doesn't actively believe in this stuff (or at least I severely doubt it), but he doesn't actively protest it either.

"Honestly, Alexandra, we're going to have to ask the Father for more punishments," my father says through clenched teeth. "Clearly all the beatings aren't taking effect."

"Maybe you should make her pray all day long, Dad," Justin suggests. "No one's ever tried that one before."

My mother sobs and then chokes out, "Perhaps we should ask the Father for guidance. It is he who would know the answer."

My father nods his head slowly. "Yes... yes, I believe you're right Theresa." His contemplative tone of voices switches to rough as soon as he turns his eyes on me. "Come, Alexandra. We are going to speak with the Father."

It's during everyone else's meal times that the Father and Mother are available to be consulted freely. They don't have to go to service, which I've always found a bit hypocritical, but then again, this entire place is hypocritical. Anyway, they eat during service and give out advice during meal time. My father drags me up there, to where they sit at the front of the room.

"Ah, Jerry," the Father says like they're old friends. They're totally not. "I wish I could say I was delighted to see you, but judging by the circumstances, I do not think this meeting will be very delightful at all."

The Mother looks down at me, her eyes trying to effuse a fake kindness. I'm not buying it. "Alexandra, I hear you went to the Enforcers today. 23 lashes? My, my, that's quite a lot for a girl your age to handle."

I shrug, not letting my eyes drop from her own. "Eh. If I can handle 50 at fourteen, I can handle 23 at sixteen." There's an awkward silence during which my father groans in frustration.

"Father, Mother, these lashings clearly have no effect on my daughter," Dad begs. "Please. Is there another way we can help her to understand the grace of the Lord and the teachings of Havenwood?"

The Father bites his lip in deep thought. "Hmm. There is..." He glances over at the Mother, whose eyes widen in shock. It's such a huge act I can't believe Dad would buy it at all.

"Oh, Father, should we?"

"Yes, dear Mother, I believe we have no other option." That sounds grave. Maybe I'm getting kicked out.

"Are you throwing me out?"

"No, Alexandra," the Mother replies with a sweet expression. "We would never do that."

Damn. "Then what are you doing with me?"

The Father extends his hand to me. "Come with us. We will show you." My father looks ecstatic at this: his own daughter, off to spend time with the Father! What a great honor! Whatever.

I'm very curious about this offer. "I'll come with you, but I'm not touching you." In a rare moment of anger, the Father reaches out and grabs my hand. He squeezes it so tightly that I feel as though he might break something.

"Let's go, Alexandra. I have someone I would like you to meet." He drags me out of the Mess Hall and into the Grand House where he and the Mother live. I've never been inside- most people haven't. He leads me into what appears to be a guest bedroom with very little furnishing and no one in it.

"There's no one in here..."

"Look closer." As soon as he says that, a girl who I thought was a statue turns around from her position at the windowsill. The first thought I have when I see her is how can this girl be a punishment? She's absolutely stunning, I think. Something about her just radiates a quiet, tragic sort of beauty and immediately I'm captivated.

The Father walks over to her, ruining the magic of the moment for me. "Alexandra, this is Mitchie. She is from Cascadia and needs some help adjusting. Punishments do not work for you, so perhaps some responsibility will." He leans in closer to me and says quietly, "And anything you do, I mean _anything_, will result in double the punishment while she is in your care." He stands back up, trying to make it seem like everything is normal. "Also, Alexandra, Mitchie is mute."

I smile. "You mean, like, she can't talk?"

"More like she won't."

I look right at her with what I hope is a comforting look; I'm not exactly well-versed in giving those. "I think I already like her better than anyone else here."


	3. Silence

**A/N: What I'm speaking of here with Mitchie is a symptom of PTSD where the person becomes mute due to stress or another traumatic event.**

I'm starting to like this Mitchie girl a lot. Talking to her is like talking to Damien, only every sentence isn't punctuated by a painful lashing. I feel like she won't judge me, mostly because she doesn't talk. I asked the Father if she ever had the ability to talk and he said that she used to speak, but suddenly stopped about eight months ago. Somehow, "suddenly" doesn't strike me as quite the right word; we've read about lots of people that have lots the ability to talk because of some traumatic incident and then some spiritual guide has given it back to them. I guess that Mitchie didn't have the same spiritual guidance as the rest of them, or it didn't work on her. It probably didn't work, because that kind of stuff never does.

It's also nice because during lessons we get to sit in the back and pass notes since she can't talk. The rationale behind this is that she won't have to disrupt the entire class whenever she has a question, just me, and no one here really gives a shit about me anyway. Which is why I'm still not entirely sure of the reason they put her with me. Do they not think I'll corrupt her with my ungodly ways? Am I supposed to learn some sort of responsibility and keep myself out of trouble? Actually, the Father's threat that I get double the punishment if I mess up with Mitchie around is what's keeping from- well, not committing the any of the Cardinal Atrocities, but not getting caught for doing them. It's easier when I have someone to, ah, write to. I ask the questions to her in the middle of class on the paper that we're allowed to write on. I'm fairly certain that the teacher knows I'm being insubordinate, but Ms. Danya has not bothered to deal with me in the three years since she sat me to sit in the back of the classroom. And the weird thing is whenever I'll write a question to her, she'll answer. Like, OK, it makes sense if it's a math question or something easy like that, but when I question the Shepherds or the Bible she gives a really well thought out answer. Half the time it defends the Bible, half the time it goes against everything in the damn book. I don't understand her very well, and it's harder to get to know her than most people because we can only communicate through notes and yes-or-no questions.

Sometimes, I find it ridiculously strange being around her because all I ever hear is the sound of my own voice. She doesn't even giggle or anything. So while I do enjoy around someone who actually uses her intelligence, it does kind of weird me out. But it's better than being with Justin or anyone else around here.

Today is the day we officially welcome Mitchie into our compound. Usually people have to go through two weeks of "belief tests" before they can be an actual part of our compound, but since Mitchie came from Cascadia she just has to hang around for two weeks without getting in trouble. If they saw half the stuff we were writing, she would've been in lots of trouble. And side note- in case you're wondering what a belief test is, I have no earthly idea. Anyone who's born in the compound doesn't have to go through one, though I've heard it's like getting a constant beating from the Enforcers and a super tough quiz on our belief system. I also don't know what happens if you don't pass; everyone whose taken it has passed in my memory.

Usually for a person's official entrance into the community they have to read a Bible passage of their choosing and our community's pledge. This is tricky when it comes to Mitchie because she doesn't speak. About half of the Shepherds wanted her official membership to stay with Cascadia because she couldn't perform the passages, and the other half wanted to lock in the High Chapel and make her pray all day for her membership. I don't really know which one I'd prefer if it was me- I mean, what does it matter if you're part of Cascadia or Havenwood? It's the same creepy cult either way. I actually think that I would prefer the first option because I'd rather not sit in silence for a day in the chapel.

Curious as to her wants after I'd been rambling on about what I would choose if I were in her position, I finally ask her what she would do if she could choose. "Nod if you want to be locked in the chapel, shake your head if you want the weird membership thing," I say, hoping she'll respond. Mitchie debates this in her head for a few moments before giving a very slow nod.

"Ew! Why would you want to sit by yourself all- oh!" I catch myself, feeling embarrassed. I'm blushing. I know I'm blushing. It feels very strange for me to tip-toe around the issue when I'm usually so forward about everything. But I think I would feel strange to act all insensitive around Mitchie, because I know she would never act that insensitive about my beliefs. To most people that might sound stupid considering we've only known each other for two weeks, yet that's something I know as surely as I know that everything we've been taught here isn't worth a shit. I think it's just her personality- or part of the little of I know, that is. She's difficult to figure out, at any rate. But that keeps me entertained and out of trouble. In fact, I haven't been caught for breaking a Cardinal Atrocity in two whole weeks. My parents are so proud that they want to take me up during dinner to thank the Father for his brilliant idea.

Mitchie doesn't respond to my little insensitive comment. Her quizzical expression doesn't even change in the least. I feel awkward just sitting there, and I'm pretty sure things would be more awkward if I apologized since she knows I know that I made a mistake. If that makes any sense...

Anyway, today at dinner is when we'll all be informed of the Shepherds' decision and when my parents are going to thank the Father. Sounds like a shitty dinner to me because of all the interaction with the Father and because I think they're gonna make Mitchie pray all day, and I'm bound to get in trouble without her around to watch me. Even though she breaks the rules about questioning things all the time, she does it on a paper that the teachers never see so she doesn't get caught. And whenever she notices me about to get myself whipped seven ways to Sunday, she restrains me with a casual touch on my arm or shoulder or back. It's weirdly calming and frustrating at the same time. I'm fairly sure I'm mostly frustrated because I haven't pissed anyone off in two weeks, which is sort of my idea of fun. There's not much else to do around here.  
Right now, it's just after classes and Mitchie and I are sitting on the grass outside near the forest, fairly far away from everyone else. The first couple of days she was here, people used to crowd around Mitchie and then they realized she was with me. It backed them off real quick, which I think she enjoyed. There's a lot more to her than quirky body language. I just wish I could figure it out.

I'm busy doodling on the extra paper that we have from school. It's such a luxury to get it outside of the schoolroom; all the Shepherds agree that any unsupervised creative expression could easily result in corruption from the devil. They, of course, don't know I still have the paper. But I've always enjoyed drawing and it's nice to be able to do it without all the silly restrictions.

Mitchie's busy tying a bunch of little white flowers together in a circle. I have no clue what that is, though she seems to be enjoying and doing it with a purpose. Maybe it's a religious symbol that I never paid attention to. Or maybe she's crazier than I thought.

"What's that?" I finally ask, pointing to the circle. She looks at me like _I'm_ the crazy one. Then she gestures for one of the pieces of paper.

"A crown," she writes.

I'm very confused. "Aren't crowns supposed to be all regal and important?"

She smiles and looks like she wants to laugh but can't quite manage it. "This one isn't. It's just for fun," are the next words I see written on the paper in her adorably loopy handwriting.

"Are you going to wear it?" I think it would look very pretty on her, a sort of commentary on her very simple nature.

"No. YOU are." I read the words on the paper, feeling suddenly strange. I'm not a crown person or a flower person and would normally have shied away from such an overtly feminine sort of deal. But because Mitchie had made it for me, it seemed a little less strange.

I shrug in a non-convincing way. "OK." She lets her smile drop into a look of concentration as she ties the last knot together and delicately admires the flowers on my head. I can't say I'm extremely fond of flower crowns, but I am extremely fond of the wide grin that appears on her face when I put it on. "You like it?" She nods vigorously, and it appears as though her breathe has almost been literally taken away by me in the crown. Her admiration makes me feel slightly embarrassed, probably because the only thing I'm used to receiving around here is contempt.

Uncomfortable, I shift to what is probably a defensive mechanism. "How come you can't talk?" I blurt out, clearly not thinking. My tact to get the focus off me is to put it accusingly on someone else. Her eyes go straight to her lap and my mouth bumbles open and closed, open and closed. "Mitchie... I... Sometimes, I just say stuff. Because I don't want to talk about me."

She raises her eyes to my face, but she won't smile; she looks at me with so much sadness in her eyes that I know that I will never believe the depths of human cruelty that caused her to be like this if I ever find out. I want to say something more, something better, but I can't find the words as the bell for evening prayer rings.

So instead I just say, "We don't want to be late." I stuff the paper into the pockets of my dress and take her hand. Together, we run up to the church.

We're not late by any stretch of the imagination, but we do draw attention to ourselves with our loud and clomping feet that hit the cold marble of the High Chapel with the force of a stampede. I rope Mitchie into sitting with me in the back instead of upfront with my family. Her family didn't transfer from Cascadia with her- or maybe she didn't have any family to begin with. Either way, it left her to be stuck with me. I don't think she minds.

At evening service today the preaching Shepherd (Todd) decides that it's a good idea to call Mitchie out on the spot and talk about God's plan for her. He claims that most of us at Havenwood don't even know her at all, which is true, but most people at Havenwood keep to themselves. He continues on to blather about her strength and how God is looking out for her.

"Mitchie Torres," he begins in an overly dramatic voice, "is the perfect example of why we should trust in God. Mitchie one day stopped talking for a reason that no one could figure out- at least, on the surface. Not a soul in Cascadia knew what to make of her sudden transformation. But then a miraculous revelation occurred to the Shepherds- perhaps Mitchie does not talk with us mortal beings because she is communing with God! Yes! Imagine! Someone within our ranks, communicating with God all the time! So many secrets within Mitchie's wonderful mind! And one day, when God decides she is ready, she will share His words with us! This is another sign that we _are_ the Chosen! We _are_ the Chosen!" There is an eruption of clapping when Todd ends his little speech. He gives a petite bow as he exits the stage. People all around us are standing proudly on their feet, and all I want to do is throw up. There is no way in _hell_ that Mitchie is "communing with God" or whatever bullshit Todd is trying to spew. She was clearly traumatized- that's the way people get like this, not some imaginary asshole invading their space. Plus, Mitchie's fists have gotten steadily more clenched as the speech wore on. With all the people up on their feet, all the people cheering, she looks almost murderous. Not knowing what to do really, I reciprocate one of the gestures she uses to calm me down: cautiously, I take one of her balled up fists and place my hand over top of it. Not very much, I know, but it's enough.


	4. Touch

**A/N: Sorry for the late update. Hope it's worth the wait. And just to warn people (since this is T and all) there's a couple of uses of the f-word in this chapter :0. So if that offends you, don't read. Or just deal with it, cause really it's only like 3 times. Sorry if does offend anyone.**

Dinner tonight is going to be a bloody disaster, I can tell. Not for Mitchie, I guess, because judging by Todd's words she was gonna be sitting in a chapel praying all day. I doubt that they would call her super holy and such and then not give her a membership. Although, who knows what shit is going on in these people's minds? I most certainly have no clue. At any rate, Mitchie and I both bolt out of the chapel and head slightly away from the dinner hall. It will take at least 30 minutes for everyone to get over there because of the old and dying people and the super devoted who want to spend time talking to Todd. I sense that he probably wants to talk to Mitchie, though, so he might attempt to follow us.

I check over my shoulder rapidly, many times, just to make sure that Todd isn't following us or sending one of the Shepherds-In-Training (officially called Pages) to do it for him. So far, I see no one, which really doesn't mean much. The Shepherds and Pages are allowed to carry walkie-talkies so that they can keep tabs on the rest of us, which suggests that one of them might be chilling behind the trees, just waiting for us to appear. I decide it's worth the risk to run to the trees and be jumped by some over-enthusiastic Page rather than stay here and get my brains blasted by Todd. I could probably threaten the Page enough to get him away from me and Mitchie; they're all pretty much pansies. Besides, I sense that Mitchie is not at all interested in being around Shepherds and holy admirers right now. I think that I was probably right about her having been through some sort of trauma, because of the way she reacted to my earlier comment about her not speaking and because of the way she acted when Todd spewed out his useless bullshit.

We reach the edge of the woods, going in close enough so that we can see the flood of people going to the dining hall but far enough that someone walking past would have to look real hard to spot us. After I've gotten over the brilliance of my hiding spot, I realize I have absolutely no idea what to do in this situation. Not that I'd have much of a clue what to do in any sort of comfort situation, but this feels so much more weird because I can't ask her what's wrong. But maybe I should try and talk anyway, because I've never been good with touching since most of the touches I've received have ended in pain.

"Mitchie?"

She gazes up at me, but I just see the tears in her sad little eyes and it almost makes me want to cry, a strange feeling in and of itself. I've never cried from raw _emotions_ before; just from physical pain. Mitchie, on the other hand, appears to be used to do so.

"I don't really know what I can say, because, well, I don't know what happened. But I'm bright enough to get that it wasn't all that great, or you wouldn't have been upset with Todd's divinity speech." I take a shaky breath, try not close my eyes too tightly, and place a gentle hand on Mitchie's shoulder. We're both a little confused by the heat flowing from my hand and into her body at first; I suppose that her previous experience with touch isn't much better than mine. "I don't know if you're ever going to be OK or if you're ever going to talk again, and you probably don't know that either, but I did want you to be certain that you're always going to have a friend who will always be OK when she's with you." That last line is _sooo_ ridiculously cheesy that I can't get over it. But I guess Mitchie enjoyed it because right now she's looking at me with just the smallest glimmer of hope in her still wet eyes. I get a little braver, a little stupider, as I push myself nearer to her body and ever so carefully slide my hand down to her waist. It feels so much less awkward for me to rest my arm there, and I guess she must feel a bit more comfortable, too, because she leans over and lays her head softly on my shoulder- so softly that if I hadn't been looking directly at her I wouldn't have noticed it was there until the tears start to fall. I can't deny that this is the sight of her- hair spilled over my shoulder and down onto my chest, tiny rolling droplets spilling from her eyes, hands curled up in my lap with mine tentatively covering them, legs drawn up underneath her and crinkling her dress- is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I also can't deny that it's the most heartbreaking. And I have absolutely no idea what that means.

The last couple of stragglers begin to crawl up the road toward the dining hall and I hear myself quietly whispering that we should be getting up, too. I lift Mitchie's head off my shoulder and something in her clicks, making her get up and send me a smile. I'm not entirely sure what just happened between us- things are always so much more complicated when there are no words involved.

We manage to slip into the dining hall without Todd intercepting us, but my parents catch us soon after. It's not like we can really avoid them, since we have to sit with our families. Mitchie has become part of our family, and it's not like she has anywhere else to sit. The Shepherds wouldn't let her sit with them in the beginning, although now they might because of her new-found divinity.

Sure enough, once they're all seated, Todd strides over to our table with this huge grin on his face, staring directly at Mitchie. It makes me want to throw up. "Ah, Mitchie. Would like to join myself and the other Shepherds for dinner?" The warm, inviting tone in his voice doesn't match up with the cold, hard stare in his eyes. There is no option: Mitchie is expected to go. Todd holds out his hand, which she accepts tentatively. I'm fairly sure that my family's love for Todd blinds them to the blisteringly hard grip he has on her hand, but I notice. And it makes me want to punch Todd in his fucking face.

I'm so busy fuming that I don't even realize my father's been calling my name since the second Todd took Mitchie away. Justin finally leans over and flicks me on the ear to get my attention. "Ow! Justin! What the hell is your-"

"Alexandra!" my father roars as soon as the word "hell" flies out of my mouth. "You know throwing that word around is one of the most insulting things you can say!"

"Just because I know doesn't mean I care," I snap. Suddenly 46 lashes seems like an OK bargain for getting even with my father; it is Cardinal Atrocity #5 (don't question men) that has always bothered me the most. I can never stop myself when it comes to this- never.

Dad abandons his seat and rips me out of mine, shaking me from the shoulders. "Are you looking for a lashing, young lady?"

I shrug, trying to remain calm. "Clearly it doesn't affect me."

"Oh, it doesn't affect you now, does it?" he thunders. He turns to face the Father in a completely confusing move that I definitely didn't see coming. "Father?"

The Father gets up from his chair and slowly makes his way over to us, an evil smile crossing his face. "Yes, my child?"

"My daughter Alexandra has just asked for 46 lashes," he states plainly.

"Did she now?"

"No I didn't!" I protest. Brilliant. Now look where my big mouth has gotten me.

The Father gives me more of his disgusting smirk. "You don't want 46 lashes, Alexandra?"

"Why the hell would I want that?" I burst out at him, trying my hardest not to scream.

He places his hand on my shoulder with a steely grip. "Well, if the young lady says she doesn't want 46, we can cut her a deal." Fuck, fuck, fuck. That does _not_ sound good. "You can have 23." He pauses, long and dramatic. "But your new little friend gets to watch."  
"WHAT!" I'm seconds away from exploding, years past caring that the eyes of everyone in the hall are staring me down and boring into my "cursed" soul.

The Father turns to my dad, giving him a curt nod. "I think we have finally found a punishment that works." He claps his hands three times and Damien comes over to him, looking ridiculously smug and happy at this new turn of events. But I'm not happy. I am SO not happy. I'm shaking and convulsing and so close to tears that I feel like Noah's Flood is about to erupt inside of me, but I keep it down. They will never see me cry.

Seeing Damien manhandle Mitchie from her seat is not something I'll likely ever forget: he rips her from the chair, grabs her hair and throws her around. I'm struggling against my father's hold to get at her; she looks so scared, it breaks my heart to watch the terrified tears slowly sink down her pale cheeks and her tiny, delicate hands bundle up into pathetic fists.

"Just give me 46!" I shout desperately as Damien drags me out of the hall and into the night. "Give me 106! I don't care! Just don't punish her! She did _nothing_ wrong!" It's so hard to keep the tears of frustration and anger and hate and fear at bay, but I manage. I've had much too much practice.

Once we leave the relative warm glow of the hall, Mitchie ceases to struggle against Damien in any way. She's become almost submissive, but her breathing's increased dramatically and she looks like she would scream if she could. Suddenly, I wonder if this reminds her of whatever trauma it was that caused her to stop talking in the first place. At this moment, I can't stand myself.

Damien pushes us hard into the Enforcers' barracks and gives me his usual look. "I know: get against the wall, lift up your dress-" I stop there, because Mitchie's eyes get so wide at this and she starts to appear faint. The trauma. Could it be...? I can't think about that now, though, because Damien's whipping me hard with his rope, tearing sharp bloody lines into my back. I feel the sting, even feel the tears in my eyes, but my eyes find Mitchie sobbing silently in the corner and I know I can hold out just a bit longer.

Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. I think I'm done and start to stand up from the wall, but Damien's rough hand pushes my exhausted form back against the stone. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven.

How many more is he doing? Mitchie's sunk to the floor by now, eyes covered in her dress. But Damien kicks her foot, forces her to look at me squirm under his whip.

Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one.

Shit. He's going to do all 46. All forty-fucking-six.

Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four. Thirty-five.

The pain is almost going away, a wash of numbness falling over my body as my mind slips from consciousness.

Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine. Forty.

Almost there... I'm not sure if I can hold on.

Forty-one. Forty-two. Forty-three.

Slipping, slipping, swirling in the black...

Forty-four.

Just shapes and colors and no feelings; no hands on the stone, no whip on my back, no cracks in my ears, just the sobbing face of a traumatized girl.

Forty-five.

The walls dissipate, the whip is hard to see, and all I can focus on is her fragile body.

Forty-six.

The hand supporting me disappears and my legs give out as my dress flops back down of its own accord. My knees hit the floor, but the rest of me doesn't, as someone has come from behind me and lifted me from my armpits. It's still hard to hear but I do manage to pick out a sentence from the din, the first words I have ever heard him say:

"I gave you all 46 because you are an abomination." Thank God his footsteps fade out and he retreats to the bunks while Mitchie helps me walk outside, because no longer can I hold in my tears. I hardly even feel them as they drip on my dress, on Mitchie's shoes, on the ground.

I don't really know where we walk or how long it takes us to get there, but soon enough my blurry vision watches my aching body lower to the ground. "Put me... on my stomach," I choke out. Mitchie responds only with a caring touch, worlds away from the one I received moments ago. She lays me gently onto the ground and allows my head to rest in her lap as she leans back against a tree.

"Mitchie? I am-I am sorry," I whisper, just managing to hold onto consciousness right now.

Her response is obviously not verbal, but a very hesitant kiss on the back of my head that lasts long enough for me to keep awake and ask, "Mitchie? Could you lift my dress up? So they're not... suffocating." She complies, pulling the cloth up slowly so as not to hurt the wounds that sting and feel so wonderful simultaneously as the cool night air hits them. "Thank you."

She doesn't respond, but I know that she's terrified, because I feel a lone tear fall warm on my skin.


	5. Strength

**A/N: I felt inspired. I wrote this all in like 3 hours total writing time. It's shorter than usual, but it felt like a good place to end. Mitchie's name in this chapter kind of upsets me- it just doesn't go with the flow for some reason. But what can you do? Anyway, here's chapter 5.**

I must have woken up at least a little bit last night because when the sunlight streams down on me I'm on my stomach in my scratchy, horrible bed. And it would be next to impossible for Mitchie to carry me all the way up the hill and into my room; well, now it's our room. Sure enough, she's sleeping in her own bed on her side, almost curled up into a fetal position. I can't help but just stare at her; she looks so peaceful. I don't want to wake her and force into facing whatever will be going on this morning, what with the Shepherds not announcing their decision of what to do with her last night. As quietly as possible, I get myself out of bed and go into the one bathroom we all share, just down the hall. The clock beside it reads 7:34, which means there's a little less than an hour before morning services. Everyone else is probably already downstairs, doing early morning family bonding or prayers or something. I stopped getting up for those when I was about 10 and no one really took notice.

As I do the morning after every beating, I limp into the bathroom to put on some cream I, uh, "liberated" from the nurse years ago. It's kind of difficult to do because the wounds are on my back, but if I twist my body into just the right, crooked position and open the shower door just so, I can see the reflection of my back on the mirror over the sink in the shower door mirror.

The cream stings a little as I put it over the longest one, but it's difficult to tell where one cut ends and the next begins. Usually I end up just rubbing it over my entire back, though that's extremely painful and I like to try everything else first. I've never had to do this many, not since-

The tube drops to the floor, and suddenly I'm not in the bathroom anymore.

_Night. I am fourteen years old, staring out at the winter sky from my bedroom window. It's just about time for lights out and I am counting the seconds for just after the compound goes to sleep, I will be sneaking out and getting away forever. I've never been so excited._

_I've never been so scared._

_I am running, running, running across the melting snow and sopping grass into the dark depths of the woods. I know that once I am in the woods, I will be free. I know them better than anyone in the compound, and I know that they lead to one of the ends of the giant fence surrounding this dastardly place. _

_I am tripping, falling, stumbling as hands grasp at my dress. The men behind me shout curses and prayers, all at the same time. They've caught me before I've reached the woods, and it is over. It is all over._

_I am leaning up against the wall with my dress completely off this time, and I am shivering. The winter wind has always been bitter here. The Father gives the newest member of the Enforcers the honorary task of giving me 50 lashes, 50 cuts, 50 scars. Damien steps behind me, and never having done this before, he raises his whip-_

_I am in complete agony as the whip slices my back and snakes around to the softer skin of my stomach and my chest. It curls around me, all around me, leaving at least one mark on every part of my body, save for my face and upper arms-_

_I am screaming out, but I am not crying-_

_I am fainting, slipping, losing it-_

_I am standing up outside in the forest, completely naked. My clothes are bundled at my feet, which turn blue and brown and green as they sink into the mud-_

_I am being caressed by the winter wind, wrapped in its icy hands-_

_It swarms around me like an old friend._

I am on my hands and knees in the bathroom, panting, my hair dropping down in front of my face. The tube rolls around on the floor next to me in an almost mocking way. I shut my eyes tightly in hopes to forget what I'm thinking about, but shutting down just makes me see myself, broken and bruised, in flashes. I never want to be like that again.

A soft hand brushes on my back and a body leans down next to mine. Wordlessly, someone picks up the tube and stands back up. I know instantly it's Mitchie; everyone else would've yelled at me.

I open my eyes, staring at the rugs on the floor. I see Mitchie's bare feet standing still beside me, her hand extending downward to help me up. As much as I don't want to, I let her be the strong one this time around and lift me into a standing position. And even more uncharacteristically, I let her cover my body with hers, her arms encircling my shoulders loosely, our feet practically on top of each other, her hair cascades over the entire left half of my body it's so long. I just stand mostly still, unsure of what to do. Hugs and I have never best been friends but right now my brain can't comprehend why because this feels so unbelievably _good_. Confused, I simply put my arms around her waist with my pinkies looped together, drawing her even closer to me. And shockingly, this makes the whole thing only feel _better_.

"Mitchie?" I don't expect a response, but I pause just to make sure she's paying attention. "I-it's not- I like this, I really do, but I need to fix my back..." I hope she's not hurt as she pulls away. She's not, it's easy to see, what with the smile on her face as she picks up the tube from the side of the sink.

I hate feeling this weak almost as much as I love having her help me. It's such a strange sensation to me, to have someone else doing for me what I've always done myself. But I guess maybe what's bothering me is that she really cares- despite it all, she really, really cares about me. I've never experienced that before. "Hey, Mitchie? You really don't have to do this-"

She stares at me dead on and I know from her determination that she's trying to say, "But I _want_ to." I think that she probably feels the same way as I do about all this affection; maybe she's trying to pay me back for helping her. I don't like being helped nearly as much as I like helping, but I think I can handle it. For her.

"Just, um, try to get it on the cuts, like, in a line or something," I mumble awkwardly. "Don't just, you know, rub it over my whole back. It hurts more like that." I brace myself against the sink, ready for the first jolt to hit my exposed skin.

Mitchie pulls up my dress again with a gasp. I lift my head so I can see her shocked face in the mirror; she never realized how bad it is. But with a quiet strength, she regains her composure and begins to shakily put the cream over my back. It hurts like hell, yet I can't let myself cry; I can't let her see that it's hurting me, otherwise she might stop and that'll just make it worse later.

In no time at all Mitchie has finished fixing my back and drags me back into our room to get dressed for the day. I check the clock on our way back: 8:08. 22 minutes until morning services. I shed my old dress and quickly put on a new one, find some shoes, and I am ready for the day. Mitchie finishes up lacing her own shoes and we silently go downstairs, hand in hand.

My parents and brothers haven't left yet, but instead they are simply sitting on the ground and quietly praying. Well, Max isn't. Not really; his hands are clasped but only barely and his open eyes stare straight at the wall in front of him. I don't think he's taking in a word of my father's prayers.

"Oh, Lord," Dad says in his most annoyingly devout way, "please bless all of Havenwood and her sister compounds, and allow the ignorant to come worship within our walls. Thank You for providing me with such a wonderful wife; You could not have made a more perfect choice. Thank You for my sons, who are growing into fine young men. Thank You for entrusting us with the care of Mitchie, who we understand is one of your holiest devotees. We pray that she finds the peace to speak and share Your wisdom with us all. Amen." Justin and Mom let out a resounding "amen," while Max only mumbles it. It does not escape Mitchie and my notice that I'm not mentioned in Dad's prayers. Maybe he's trying to replace me with Mitchie, which would not surprise me.

"Hi, Dad." I figure it will catch him off guard- me being ready early and all.

"Alexandra?" He checks his pocket watch. "You're... early."

I walk down the stairs all the way trying to make it appear as painless as possible. "Yeah. And it sounds like you're gunning for Shepherd-hood with that prayer."

He's totally bewildered. It's funny. "Um... well, good morning, Mitchie. Did you sleep well?"

Mitchie just nods her head. Dad has no idea how to respond. It's still funny as hell. "Good. Good. That's- good."

"Jerry," Mom begins, trying to keep the weirdness out of the room, "we should probably be leaving."

My dad snaps out of whatever funk he was in and says, "Yes. Yes. We should... go." I have no idea what just happened but it makes me laugh, and it makes Mitchie smirk a little, and that's good enough for me.


	6. Prayers

**A/N: I am like a writing machine for this story today... Three updates within (almost) 24 hours. Shows how much of a life I have. Of course, this means you probably won't get anything else for another six months or so. Haha.**

Morning services pass by fairly quickly, which is surprising considering we had to sit with my family today. Dad thinks that the 23 lashes (he doesn't know Damien gave me all 46) with Mitchie watching had a profound effect on me, and he wouldn't be wrong. Only I didn't learn what he wants me to learn; I learned that I should take what I'm given, because refusal would just make things worse. Everyone else in the community notices that I'm sitting with my parents, too. I feel all the eyes turn to us when we enter as a family. _Family_. What we are is a disgusting, misconstrued version of what should be a beautiful word.

After the final "Amen", Rosslyn descends swiftly upon us before we're even able to put our Bibles back in the holders on the pews. "Ah, Russo family. You will be pleased to know that the Shepherd Council has decided that Mitchie can gain official membership in Havenwood through a day of silent prayer."

Mom, Dad, and Justin look like they actually care about Mitchie's well-being. Max doesn't look like he cares about anything and I'm pretty sure my mouth is hanging open. I don't turn my head to see Mitchie's reaction, though I'm fairly certain she won't have much of one. She reacts to very little, except me. Not to sound egotistical or anything, but it's true.

"That's excellent news!" Dad exclaims, clapping Mitchie on the shoulder like she's his daughter. And even though I've tried to put lots of distance between myself and my family, I hate to admit that it hurts to see him care about her so deeply because she's "holy" when I barely get a sideways glance.

Rosslyn nods curtly. "We thought you would agree. We would also like for Alexandra to spend the day praying in silence as well."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "Why?"

"To help your friend, of course. If you pray for her, perhaps God will see how much she is loved and return the power of speech to her, which is what we know she most desires." Rosslyn tries to appear shocked that I would even need to wonder such a thing. Clearly I was right in wondering because Mitchie scrunches up her face in confusion when Rosslyn says that she most desires to regain the ability to speak. Which gets me to wondering what her greatest desire is. I'll have to ask her later.

I nod my head in the most unconvinced way. "Yeah. Sure. What the heck?"

"Alexandra," Dad warns.

"I'm going with her; don't get your panties in a knot," I tell him. The adults and my brother are supremely chagrined by this declaration. Max and Mitchie don't actively react.

Since there's not technically anything wrong with that statement, Rosslyn just sighs and angrily addresses my family. "As for the rest of you, it's breakfast time."

"What!" I exclaim. "We don't even get breakfast?"

"Of course not. You are fasting to show your devotion to God," Rosslyn tells me. Brilliant. This just keeps getting better and better. I groan but allow myself to be led to the altar, just to avoid any other punishment I or Mitchie might receive.

"Bye, girls! Make us proud!" Mom calls after us as they exit the chapel. The doors close from the outside and I realize that it's going to be just me, Mitchie, and Rosslyn in here _all day_. And while I wouldn't mind spending all day with Mitchie, Rosslyn is a super bitch and is totally out to get me.

"Hey, Rosslyn-"

"You address me as Shepherd Rosslyn or I will not respond," she tells me sharply.

What a classic mistake. "You just did."

She purses her nose up at me, completely invades my personal bubble, and slaps me hard across the face. "You will not question anything I say, and you will not talk back. You have no idea how long I've waited to get you alone, Alexandra Russo."

OK, super creepy... "But Mitchie's here."  
Rosslyn laughs. "She can't talk, in case you haven't noticed. And since it's clear no one outside really cares about you, I can do whatever I want with you." She leans in even closer, an evil sneer dancing on her lips. "And no one will ever know."

I'm actually scared now, the stinging of my cheek a reminder of what she might do. "How long is all day?"

"What?" At least she's slightly baffled now.

"I mean, do we get out at, like, lights out or evening services or what?"

My genuine curiosity makes her inclined to answer. "Neither evening nor afternoon services will be held in the High Chapel today; you girls will stay in here until after dinner. You will not eat until tomorrow morning," she adds, anticipating my next question. "Is that all?" She looks at both of us expectantly. I kind of want to piss her off some more, but I can't think of anything. "Good. You will not speak for the rest of the day, Alexandra. And you will both pray. On your knees, hands together." We do as instructed. Rosslyn walks behind us on her way to the pew and slaps me upside the head on her way. Out of the corner of my eye I see her smiling. Smiling! What a sadistic little bitch.

So. Praying silently is about as exciting as you would expect. Even Mitchie looks horribly bored. Actually, I think that she's falling asleep. If we were anywhere but the Chapel with the Shepherd from Hell, I would have let her because she just looks so damn _cute._ However, I also don't want her to get smacked upside the head, so I kick her lightly with one of my feet. She snaps out of it in an equally adorable fashion. I get a nice smile for my efforts, so it's totally worth it.

Twenty minutes or so later (an hour and twenty minutes in), I hear Rosslyn getting up and moving toward the altar. She can't resist the urge to flick me behind the ear as she stands in front of us on the elevated platform. It looks like she's lording over us. And totally enjoying it. "You may now explore non-traditional methods of prayer, though you still may not speak. This means you may get up, walk, dance, write, read the Bible, etc.," she tells us. I don't think she made these rules because she looks put out delivering them. Probably wants us to stay on the floor until our knees bleed.

At any rate, Mitchie and I both get up, clearly and silently deciding that it's best we explore the chapel by ourselves and not with each other. Which is fine and dandy because it gives me an amazing view of her: streamlined and outlined by the sun jaggedly flowing through the stained glass painting of Jesus was Mitchie's form, the shadows and light forming such a balance on her body that it takes my breath away for just a moment. She catches me staring and waves with the cutest smile I've ever seen. Slightly dumbfounded, I wave back. What the hell is going on with me? I put my hands in the traditional prayer form and walk around the church, thinking.

Until I get it.

_Cute._

_Adorable._

_Pretty._

_Beautiful._

All of these words I've been using to describe her, they're all words that they taught us in Courting Class (don't get me started on how ridiculously misogynistic that entire class was) are appropriate for boys to give girls as compliments on how they look. For boys to give girls... Last time I checked, I'm not a boy. Then what the hell is this?!

Never, ever have we been given an option to be with anyone but the opposite sex. Never was it even discussed that it could happen. These words, the reactions I have to her touches- they _warned _us that too many of these lustful thoughts could lead to breaking Cardinal Atrocity #1, the only one I haven't broken. Shit. What IS this? No one's ever mentioned this to me, to anyone at this compound. Why... what is Mitchie doing to me?

Could I... no way. I can't want to kiss her. That's... not normal, is it? Is it? Since when have I believed any of the other shit they throw my way? I mean, here, there's only one road through life, right? I know that there are other paths to take out in the real world because I our teachers always warn us about the demonic choices they make out there. So maybe, then, if there are so many choices about what paths to take, then making liking girls is OK, too? I don't know. I will never know unless I try to escape again, but I know I'm not going to do that until Mitchie's alright with it. I'm not leaving her. But I don't think I'll ask her about this, either, because maybe she'll think it's weird and I'll lose my only friend. It's just too odd to think about; can I want that from her? More importantly- can I _ask_ that from her? Who knows what kind of trauma she's been through? Maybe even just kissing her would set that trauma off again... or maybe it would just weird her out in a way thoroughly unrelated to the trauma. Suddenly, I feel like crying because of all the things I'll never know about her due some ridiculous asshole who fucked her up- I'll never know what her life was like, if she can sing, if she's usually really talkative or if she actually is quiet, what her voice sounds like, what it's like to kiss her... WHOA. Keep those temptations in check there, Alex. Not that I think wanting to kiss someone is wrong, but, I mean, she's my best friend and she's a girl and is that even a real thing? Girls kissing girls? Can that happen? Would it make the world explode? OK, clearly I'm overreacting. Maybe it can happen. Maybe some girls even like it. Maybe I'm one of them. Thinking back on it, ever since childhood I've thought it would make sense for boys to be with boys and girls to be with girls because they would understand each other better. So maybe I've only ever wanted girls...? I have no idea; all I know is that I look at Mitchie with a certain gaze I've never wasted on any boy. I guess I'll just let it be for now. It's not like we could do anything about it anyway, so why bother? Why should I bother torturing myself a little more?

Nearly 10 hours later we get to escape from the prison. Rosslyn attempted to beat me up a couple more times, but I showed no fear so I don't think that she got quite the satisfaction out of it she was hoping for. Serves her right for trying to attack confused teenagers.

The first thing that I do when I step out of the doors is scream at the top of my lungs. Mitchie's giving me a gigantic smile. I think that's what passes for laughing when it comes to her. It's just so free and different and _beautiful__._ I know that I can't just stand here yelling and perving on her smile, so I take off down the hill at a full run toward the forest. It's a perfect night: balmy, but not cold, warm enough for just our dresses but not so hot we'll be sweating.

I reach the edge of the woods before her and promptly collapse onto my stomach, laughing like hell. She reaches me seconds later, that smile still flitting across her lips. Then she bends over, perfectly at her waist and puts her hand out. Mischievously, I snatch it and pull her down next to me. I have never, ever seen her so happy before.

"I am so glad to get out of there!" I say much louder than necessary, and then fall into a fit of giggles as we situate ourselves against the side of a tree. She's fallen into giggles, too, but they're silently. It's so _adorable_. "Rosslyn is such a bitch... probably left a mark on my face. What an asshole," I grumble. But then I realize that talking about Rosslyn is upsetting her, so I quickly change the subject. "So what's it like to be a full-fledged member of Havenwood? Feel more accepted? Feel more holy?" Mitchie just shakes her head, and her smile is open-mouthed now, like there should be raucous laughter spilling from it.

Then something that Rosslyn said early in the morning occurs to me. "Hey, Mitchie?"

She grasps my hands in my lap to acknowledge that she's heard me speak. Her hands are soft.

"You know earlier... when Rosslyn said that speaking again was your greatest desire?" She nods, not sure where I'm going with this. "Well, the look on your face made it seem like there was more to it than that." Another nod. "I just want to know what it is, that's all. I've got some paper here if you need it..." I feel so awkward right now, mostly because she looks incredibly scared. Then, slowly, her face regains some confidence and she comes closer to me. What is she doing?

Before I know how to react, she's got me pushed back against the tree trunk, her lips gently touching mine. Holy _shit_. She's kissing me. And clearly I should be kissing back. I do so, moving myself slightly from the tree and pressing back enough to let her know I'm enjoying it. I cup her cheek with my hand because it feels so indescribably _right_.

It's clumsy and sloppy and kind of awkward because neither of us have ever really done it before, but I know that it's _perfect_.

**A/N: I always love reviews, but in this chapter I'm really interested in what you guys think of Alex's realization thing. And Mitchie's the aggressive one? Bet you didn't see that coming... But I have my reasons.**


	7. Corsage

**A/N: You guys are lucky I love this story so much. Because I really should have been memorizing my marching band music. But I haven't been, because I appear to be addicted to writing this story. Which is good for you, but not so much for my relationship with my band director. Oh, well. Enjoy. This one's really long, too- almost like two chapters in one!**

As Mitchie and I make our way up the hill later that night, we notice the maintenance workers busily throwing fliers up all around the compound. I know exactly what this is for, and it makes me groan. Mitchie patiently waits for us to get back and situated in bed before giving me a quizzical look that means she wants to know what the fliers are about. We're both on my bed, me lying on top of the covers against the headboard and Mitchie sitting on criss-cross applesauce on the end of the bed.

"The fliers are for this dance that the compound holds every fall," I begin. "It's very formal and the one time a year we don't have to wear these hideous frock things. The dance is only for 16 and up, so I've never actually been. But according to Justin it's all about dancing and forming partnerships for marriage later, which sounds really dull. Plus, I'm sick of wearing dresses and a fancy one can only be that much more uncomfortable. Anyway, they pair you up randomly with one of the other kids around your age. Meaning a sixteen or seventeen-year-old. It's for everyone sixteen to twenty-one, except everyone eighteen and up gets to pick their own date. If the boy really likes the girl and is interested in pursuing her, he gives her a corsage on the day of the dance. Did you not have this at Cascadia?" She shakes her, shrugs. "Did they just force someone on you?" A nod. "Wow. That only happens here if you're a complete failure and can't find anyone by the time we're twenty-one. Which appears to be the path I'm headed down. No boy in this compound would want marry the rebel." In response to my statement, she puts her hand on my smiling as if to say, "Fuck the boys; you have me." Only probably not in that exact language because Mitchie doesn't seem like the type to curse. I just smile back at her, hoping that she understands. I've noticed that I consciously do a lot more with body language around her, probably because that's the major form of communication I get.

Mitchie yawns widely right after this exchange, suddenly looking really tired. She stretches herself out, leaning towards me and for a second I think she's going to stay, but all she does is just kiss me on the cheek- a little longer than I think would probably be proper for simple friendship. Then she goes, taking her body heat with her, and crosses back around the bed to her own. But I can't let her go that easy.

"Mitchie. Wait a second." She's right next to our shared nightstand as she stops to look at me. I take her shoulder and bring her closer to me so our faces are only inches apart and after checking in her eyes to make sure it's alright, I kiss her very softly. It's a little longer than our last one and with a little more movement, I guess because we've done it once before there's the tiniest sense of familiarity.

After we move apart, I smirk up at her in a slightly coy but still sweet way. "I just wanted to say good-night." She seems kind of paralyzed by this, but amused and excited just the same. I decide not to dwell much on that right now, and just let myself be happy for once.

* * *

The next morning during breakfast, everyone is all abuzz with the news of the dance. It's weird to see all these people excited over something; I've never noticed it before since this is the first year I'm eligible to go. But I'm still not excited, mostly because I want to go with Mitchie and I know that will never happen. I'm going to end up being escorted to the ball by some random guy who will stay away from me the entire night because he thinks I'm cursed by the devil or something.

Dad doesn't say anything to me during the course of breakfast, which is unusual since I've generally done something to anger him already. He attempts to talk to Mitchie, who halfway through the meal loosely grips my hand under the table to keep me from falling asleep. But I'm pleased to note that she keeps it there for the rest of the time, even as the Father stands up to speak.

"My children, it is almost that time of year again," the Father begins conspiratorially in almost a whisper. "Our adolescents will commence their long, difficult journey to becoming full-fledged adults with our Annual Formal Ball. This is an introduction into married life for our sixteen and seventeen year olds, and to ease the transition from their family lifestyle to a married one for those eighteen to twenty-one. It is a wonderful opportunity for our adolescents to understand courtship under gentle supervision. All of those under the age of eighteen have their names posted to the wall of the High Chapel with their partners' name as well. The ball will be on Friday, and all of those who do not have a book on proper courting techniques should speak to one of the Shepherds during lunch. Be sure to have a great time!"

Mitchie and I fall near the back of the pack when breakfast ends and all the other teenagers rush to see their partners. Justin looks exceptionally excited to find out his, probably because last year he got paired with a girl who spent more time sneezing than speaking. I am really horribly uninterested, though I hope I don't get paired up with either Nate or Shane Grey, Rosslyn's sons. Her eldest son, Jason, is too old for the under eighteen thing, thank God. Those odds would be way too good if he was eligible, too. That would just be so terrible. Rosslyn would have an excuse for torturing me. Great fun.

We reach the board last, after nearly everyone has gone off with their partner to talk which is the custom for the week before the ball. And even if you hate your partner, you have to stick it out. I think they're trying to foreshadow marriage, though no one agrees with my theory. Only two boys are standing next to the board: Justin and Nate. Three guesses as to who I get. I wish that Havenwood didn't have such a strict quota system that requires an even number of female and male babies be born every year- mostly they just go around and let every family who wants one have a baby each year and then adopt for the numbers. Apparently the Father has an "in" at the local adoption agency. Or so go the rumors.

Mitchie nudges me and points at our names on the board in all their glory:

_Justin Russo....................................... Mitchie Torres_

_Nate Grey.......................................... Alexandra Russo_

This is just lovely. Justin's smile gives away how absolutely ecstatic he is for getting paired up with the holiest girl in camp. He's probably thinking that it means the Shepherds might induct him one day, but all I'm thinking is that Mitchie will be on my brother's arm Friday, not mine.

"Mitchie, I think you're with me," Justin says in this smug domineering way like he's trying to prove something to me. Bastard.

Nate awkwardly offers his arm to me. "And, um, Alexandra... I'm your escort."

"I can read, dumb ass," I reply. I don't take his arm but instead lead him around to the only open ground in the meadow. We sit down and stare at each other for a while- well, to be more accurate, he stares gapingly at me while I watch nature and my brother with Mitchie. He's being a proper little gentleman, getting his entire conversation out of the courtship guide. Both being first years, neither Nate nor I have one. It might be helpful for poor Nate since he seems to be at a loss for what to say. I wouldn't be any more talkative if I had the book. It would actually probably make me inclined to be more quiet.

Finally, after forty minutes, Nate says something. Just not what I would expect him to say. "Just because you're used to sitting with a mute person all day doesn't mean we all are!" he snaps at me, clearly frustrated.

"Not like you've made any contributions to the conversation, either!" I shout back. "And don't you dare go attacking Mitchie for something she can't help!"

Nate knows I'm not supposed to question his "manly" authority, but apparently he's not smart enough to realize I will. "I can attack whoever I want, most certainly some _girl_. And we are going to have a normal conversation!"  
"Is that so?" I stand up menacingly upon saying this, and Nate follows. "How about I just pummel you instead?"

He steps closer, his breath right against my cheek. I want to throw up. "It will be nothing compared to what the Enforcers will do to you."

"Are you really willing to find that out?" I put my hands on my hips and stare intensely at him for a few moments. Thank God he's such a pansy because he backs down and sits, clearly upset and brooding. Nate's not the type to start a fight, and in any other circumstance, I'd say he'd be the type of boy who would cry to his mommy. But not this time. He stood up to a girl, a girl who challenged him. And she won.

* * *

The rest of the week passes by in almost time, and by that I mean it's so inescapably dull that I can't bring myself to care to relive it. We've been doing mostly lame trust exercises with our partners and lessons from the stupid fucking courtship book, which I promptly ignored all week. Nate hasn't tried to challenge my authority in our "relationship" again, though I do behave myself around Rosslyn because I honestly am afraid of her. In all of the nightmares I've ever had about being beaten or whipped or hurt, Rosslyn is always the one doling out the punishment. Mitchie seems to be letting Justin lead with the courtship book and they are often called out as the exemplary couple of the bunch, though anyone who knows Mitchie as well as I do can easily see she hates every second of it.

It's very early Friday morning and I finally have a moment to breathe. I wake up before the sun has risen completely, but that's OK because during this ball week it's nearly impossible to get a peaceful moment. And what makes it even better is that Mitchie fell asleep in my bed last night and she's still here this morning. I almost don't want to leave the safe cocoon of rumpled nightgowns, spilling hair, entwined legs, clasped hands, arms over chest, body on body. Scratch that. I _really_ don't want to leave. But I feel kind of creepy watching her sleep so peacefully, sprawled across my chest and all over the bed, really. It seems as though she moves a lot. It's _adorable_. I kiss her on the forehead, and let it linger for a second or two. That second or two is enough to drag her out of her slumber in an almost frenzied motion. I have to grab her wrists and clamp one of her legs between mine, gaze at her before her breathing calms down and I can her see face again.

"Hey, it's alright. It's just me. No one else. Just you and me. You and me," I tell her quietly, squeezing her closer. I have no idea what that seizure thing was all about, but I'm not about to ask. I know better. It's OK to just kiss her now, which I do, and soon enough our mouths are moving together and our hands are tracing lights circles over each other's torsos, carefully avoiding chests. I glide my hands over her stomach and she giggles.

"Why, Mitchie Torres," I say, leaning just far enough away from her so that I can get that out. "Are you ticklish?"

She buries her face under the blankets, clearly answering my question. I carefully move my hand from her stomach to her side. "Don't worry. I wasn't going to use it against you." I give her one last kiss on the cheek; I think I may have freaked her out a little today, so I'm going back to what's safe.

I rollover, starting to get up, but her hand tugs me back down. Her eyes make it seem like... oh. She thinks she upset me. "I'm fine; I just have to go to the bathroom," I explain, smiling. The smile's contagious.

I almost skip with happiness down the hall to the bathroom. It's been a good morning so far, and has definitely made up for whatever torture I'll have to endure tonight at the ball with Nate. But I think most of that torture will come from watching Justin dance with Mitchie- a wonderful girl that he knows nothing about, a girl that he just wants to use to get to the top. I get upset at this thought, slamming down the faucet and pretty much manhandling the towel. I throw the door open and smack right into Max. We mumble our apologies quickly; he looks a bit stunned, but alright to keep moving into the bathroom. Only as I walk down the hall do I notice that he hasn't closed the door.

"Hey, Alexandra?" It's Max, his voice so quizzical that my anger melts into a sort of guilty curiosity.

"Yes?"

He thinks real hard about the next part as though he's unsure of how to phrase it. "Why do you always... hold Mitchie's hand and give her hugs and stuff? I've never seen you like that with anyone else." Maybe he's more observant than I give him credit for; Mitchie and I rarely do that anywhere but the edge of the room and in this house late at night. Then again, he's always had strange sleeping patterns.

It takes me almost as long to answer for fear that he's discovered what we are. But I don't think he's asked with malicious intent. He seems genuinely curious about this behavior, which is definitely considered odd for me. "Well... I guess I've never really had a friend before. She's kind of my best friend now, and it seems like the kind of stuff best friends would do." Except for kissing. Best friends don't kiss each other.

He looks sullenly at the floor and speaks quietly. "I wish I had a best friend. Or anyone, really."

It's heartbreaking to hear your brother say that he doesn't have any friends, especially when you know you've been less than warm to him his entire life. "Max... I didn't know. When you were little, Mom and Dad wouldn't let me near you, because that was the exorcism phase and they didn't want me to get the devil all over you. And after that, well, you sort of became Justin's little project. I always thought you liked him better."

Max laughs. Actually, truly laughs. I don't know if I've heard my little brother make a sound so enthusiastic before. "Justin? I always hated him. I always thought you hated me."

I put my arm around his shoulder, now grinning. "I never hated you. I guess... neither of us really knew how to handle siblings after the catastrophe that is Justin. Maybe we should just start over, Maxie."

"Maxie... from when I had the flu as a little kid," he remembers in a whisper. "You snuck into my room, and told me it would be OK. I was only three or four. But I remember that."

As he mentions it, I barely remember it, though soon the scene starts to sound familiar: me leaning over the crib of my tiny little brother, praying that he doesn't turn out to be a "poopy-pants" so that we can have fun and play games together and ask questions. But this is before the devil years, and that just about puts a halt to any brother/sister relationship we could have had. "Look, Max, neither of us made much of an effort before- what if we just start over? I'd like to grow up knowing that there's someone in this family here for me."

He looks at me again with eyes too deep for a thirteen-year-old. "I just want something to care about." There is no more need for words as I wrap in a tight hug, his head buried in my chest, my arms squeezing his shoulders, his cutting off the circulation around my waist. But it's worth it. It's _so _worth it.

We part ways after that; him going to the bathroom, me back to the room. I slip back into bed, and feel Mitchie adjust next to me so that her head once again is on my chest. She's wondering what's going on. "I just... feel like sleeping again. Max has put a lot on my mind." She smiles, which means that she probably heard at least parts of the conversation. I'm glad for that.

* * *

Rosslyn angrily storms at me during lunch. She probably thinks I've upset her fragile, precious, porcelain-doll-delicate Nate. I probably have, because he takes almost every insult to heart. What a baby. "Alexandra. I have a request from my son."

"And what does your dear son want?" I question.

She is so totally uncomfortable with this, it's comical. Awkwardly, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a corsage. Brilliant. I'm sure Justin's going to give one to Mitchie, too, if he hasn't already. "He wishes for you to wear this at the ball tonight."

Technically I'm not allowed to refuse, but I seriously would have if the boy's mother were anyone but Rosslyn. So in instead, defeated, I reply, "I'd be delighted." Dad and Mom are both overjoyed at this acceptance, but it's the others' reactions I'm looking at more: Justin's bewildered and upset, Mitchie's just shrugging, and Max knows that this isn't right but he doesn't know what to do about it, either.

"Shepherd?" Dad calls out to Rosslyn as she's leaving.

"Yes?"

"Send my regards to your son."

An evil smirk appears on her face. "With pleasure."

And sure enough, directly after lunch, Justin presents Mitchie with a corsage of her very own. Just how much more awesome can this day get?

* * *

It's almost time for the ball, and I am not happy. While not unexpected, it still doesn't make this feeling any better. Mitchie is in the bathroom getting ready, per my mother's insistence. She wants us each to have our own mirror, as this is the only time each year we're allowed to wear make-up and perfume. I haven't put on either. And though I know that Mitchie and I won't be going together, I'm still excited to see her in her dress. Mine is kind of dull, but that's how I like it: long, black and sort of fitting around my body. It's the best I could get; the one with the least ruffles and excess fluff and nonsense. I've finished arranging my hair in a sort of stylish mess atop my head, so I hope it looks alright. It looks fine to me, but then again I don't really care. I'm more interested in the small group of daisies (the last of the summer's) tied together with the old lace of my baby clothes. Just looking at them makes my heart race. Urg. Why can't this kind of stuff be easy?

It's further complicated when she enters, looking absolutely _stunningly beautiful_. I can't get over her. She's practically _glowing_. Suddenly my daises don't seem like enough for this girl; Mitchie, with her dark hair curled in elegant tresses over her shoulder, her golden dress that looks like it was made by placing one layer of fabric on top of another and leaving just the tiniest bit of the bottom layer showing, her long tan arms covered mostly by flawless white gloves, her face smiling so wide and taking in the sight of me- it's almost enough to make my knees buckle.

Scared, I pick the daisies up off my table and hold them out to her. "Mitchie, I know that we're not really going together, but I think that I'd like to give you a corsage myself. Because I'm very, very interested in pursuing you further. I know it's not very elegant, but I-" She stops me by jumping into my arms with an eager hug, and just as easily I hold on to her waist.

Mitchie hugs me tightly, body pressing lightly, sweetly against mine, mouth right next to my ear. I hear her breathing, warm and soft; I hear-

"You're beautiful."

The corsage slips out of my hands and falls swiftly to the floor.


	8. Dance

**A/N: I've not put much of an epic cliffhanger at the end of this one because on Sunday I'm leaving for band camp and I don't want to leave you hanging for five days. I might have another chapter out by Sunday, but I'm not sure.**

I slowly disentangle myself from her and step back, so utterly confused. "Did you just... say something?"

Mitchie looks almost as shocked as I do, but I guess that's not horribly surprising. Maybe she had just been thinking it and it had slipped out, or she hadn't even realized that words were coming out. But it occurs to me now that I can just ask her. "Do you know why you just, you know, spoke?"

She scans the room quickly, as though to make sure that I'm talking to her. "I... don't know. One second, it was in my- head. And then- out of here." She touches just the very corners of her mouth. I wonder what it would be like to forget the sound of your own voice, because I'm pretty sure she's just getting around to remembering what her's sounds like. In my opinion, it suits her. Very well.

"How long have you been... mute?" There's so much going through my mind that I find it hard to pick which questions to ask first, which ones to put on the back-burner, and even sometimes where one thought beginnings and ends.

She shrugs. "I don't... think about it. I just sort of, um, accepted it. Otherwise, I would think too much. And that would destroy me." I can't believe she's not crying. _I'm_ close to crying, and I don't know that I've ever cried from anything that's not physical. "But if I had to guess, a little more than a year."

All my sadness disappears in an instant and turns into hot flashes of anger. What the hell happened to her that could make her absolutely _silent_ for an entire year? Full of a new, alien kind of passion, I stand up and put my arms around her waist, drawing her closer. "One day, you'll feel comfortable enough to tell me what happened to you and who did it. I can wait for that day. But the day after that I am going to Washington to kick that guy's ass all the way back to Havenwood. OK?"

There is a sadness in her smile, one that I know all too well. She leans in and kisses me on the forehead as a show of affection, something to convey our bond but not to convey the more sexual aspect of it. I smile; it's the best kiss she's given me so far. "One day, Alexandra-"

"Can you call me Alex? It's what I prefer," I mumble.

"One day, Alex, you'll know. And then we can go wherever you want to go," she tells me.

"Sounds like a happy day. The one where we go wherever we want, I mean."

Someone knocks on our door, interrupting our last moments before the torture. Mitchie whispers, "Wait."

"Just a minute," I call out to the door.

It's Max's voice that answers. "OK. I was just sent up to tell you that it's time to go." Listening carefully, I wait until his footsteps are gone before asking Mitchie, "What's the problem?"

"Let's... not let them know that I can talk, alright?" she says, almost begging and pleading with me. "I don't want to talk to God... I can't! I've never spoken to Him before, I don't have any answers, I don't-"

"Shh," is the only sound that comes out of my mouth. "I won't tell anyone, I swear. You can trust me."

She giggles at my conviction. "I know." Mitchie kisses me on the cheek shyly like she's not sure it's alright.

"Mitchie, it's fine to kiss me. In fact, it's preferred," I tell her. There's nothing more to say as I offer her my arm and we walk out into the hallway, scared as shit about the entire dance. I'm more scared of Rosslyn, to be honest. Nate I can handle. But she could easily give me enough lashes to kill me. And for the first time in my life, I feel as though I would be disappointed if I were to drop dead on the spot.

Downstairs in the living room, I see my entire family and Nate beaming up at us like we're two goddesses descending upon the mere mortals, though Max's smile holds a certain bit of irony and Justin's is focused simply on Mitchie. In fact, the one time his gaze moves to me his smile falters just a bit. But I can see it. I send him back one hard stare for retribution, and I know that he sees it. Justin's never been one for calling me out, though, so he won't give some over-dramatic rendition of my sneer to Mom and Dad.

My mother claps her hands together in adoration as we reach them, tears in her eyes. "Mitchie, you look absolutely stunning!" she squeals. That's probably the first thing we've agreed upon in years. "And Alexandra..." She probably thinks that my dress is too form-fitting and, you know, actually _good looking_. I did tailor it a little to make it hug my body a little more. But not for Nate. Definitely not for Nate. "You certainly look... feminine." She seems torn by this: on one hand, thank God that I look feminine, but on the other, well, I could look a hell of a lot more presentable. I am, after all, going with _Nate Grey_, whose mother could very easily secure my father his dream job on the Council of Shepherds or at least pave the way for Justin. Both myself and my brother have people to impress tonight.

"God is smiling on the Russo family tonight," Dad says proudly. Yes, what a great God. One who made the girl next to me so traumatized that she couldn't speak and when she finally does, she can't, because of what will happen if she says the wrong thing. Thank God, indeed. "Justin, Alexandra, you two are clearly on the way to becoming upstanding adults. And what blessings your escorts are! I don't think they could have picked better people if they tried."

"Thank you, Mr. Russo. It's such an honor to be escorting Alexandra," Nate says with a false smile. "Also, I have something to present to her." He reaches into his pocket and produces a lovely, extravagant corsage, clearly made by a master florist. "Will you accept this corsage as a symbol of my respect for you?" He's saying the lines word-for-word, strictly by the book. Seriously. There's a whole list of appropriate corsage giving and acceptance lines. It's ridiculously.

But I do the same, feeding him a practiced line. "Only if you shall accept my hand." And then you're supposed to cheesily give your hand to the boy and he'll put the corsage on it and kiss it and hold on to it. Disgusting. But I let him do so anyway, because of his mother. Justin repeats the same boring ritual with Mitchie, although I can't help but notice that my handmade corsage is still on her wrist behind Justin's professional looking one. I feel so inferior to my brother with this, even though it's clear that Mitchie is much more interested in me.

Nate spots my corsage as well on the way down to the dining hall, which is "decked out" with a bunch of lame light strings over the top of it and banner that looks like it was made in the eighties, what with his yellowing age. "So, Mitchie, where'd you get that other corsage?"

Since she can't answer, I quickly jump in with, "It's the corsage that her father gave to her mother in Cascadia. She got it as a present when she moved." So what if they don't have this tradition there? I doubt that Nate or my brother knows that.

"Wow. How'd you learn that from a girl who can't talk?" Nate asks. Rudely, I might add. That's not entirely his fault, though; I mean, look at his mother. Mitchie flinches slightly at the statement, though that might also be because Justin moves his arm from its loop around hers into a position to hold her hand, which he does. I try to send her a smile, but this is slightly complicated by the fact that I'm supposed to be engaged in conversation with Nate.

"Um, you know. She wrote it down, during class one time," I reply smoothly. There goes me breaking another Cardinal Atrocity. But I wonder- why is it so horrible to lie if you're trying to protect someone? Because really, that's all I want to do. I want to keep Mitchie safe. How is that wrong?

Nate nods, not breaking his unemotional expression. I highly doubt he will do that tonight at all. But that's OK, because I planning on staying as far away from him as possible while being with him enough to keep Rosslyn at bay. It's a tricky balance, but I'll find it.

We enter the ball, which has already started. Couples dance very far apart from each other and in a very fancy manner. And with a pang I note that _every_ couple- even those who were not paired up with their partner- is boy/girl. It just makes me feel all the more isolated from life in this compound, because of what Mitchie and I have. Which isn't something I should be ashamed of, by any means. But something about watching everyone else- I dunno. It makes things seem harder than they are. We'll make it through, though. That I have no doubt in.

A speedy foxtrot comes on and Nate smiles; this is one of only three dances we both know. "May I have this dance?"

I nod in acceptance, as I spot Rosslyn hovering out of the corner of my eye. Nate leads us onto the floor only because I let him and he leads the dance only because I let him do that as well. Plus, with him leading, that leaves me with much more room to stare off into space- or, more accurately, at Mitchie. She looks radiant, dancing with my brother, and for a split second I allow myself to believe that it's me twirling with her and not Justin, but I quickly stop that because it makes me horribly upset and nearly violent.

After an hour of dancing, both Nate and I agree that we need to break for drinks. I also consider an hour an appropriate amount of time to be seen with Nate before abandoning him without managing to give Rosslyn a conniption. I scamper off from the table with a bunch of younger kids serving water and other refreshing beverages before Nate ever has the chance to ask me what I'd like to drink. The ball is just so, so boring, even more so than I expected it to be. Nobody's really doing much except dancing and this kind of dancing isn't even fun. When I was fifteen, I did this one dance at some community bonding function where I just totally let loose and allowed every part of my body to sway or spin or gyrate along with the music. Then one of the Shepherds told me that that was "inappropriate" and that I needed to stick the "approved dances." Whatever. I've never felt the same about foxtrots and waltzes since.

"Ah, Alexandra! I thought I lost you," Nate chortles as he comes over with two glasses of water. In this overly gentleman way, he "presents" me with a cup.

"Yeah, well, you know. So many people. It's easy to get lost," I reply idly, taking a sip. "Thanks for the cup, by the way."

He stares at me as though I just told him to go and have hardcore oral sex with Satan. Like, really. That's what his face looks like. "What!"

"Um, thank you? For the water?" I'm very confused now. No idea what's going on.

"My goodness, Alexandra! I've been trying to have a conversation with you all night!" he roars, but in a quiet sort of voice so as not to attract the attention of others. "But you completely refuse to speak to me! _What_ is your problem!"

I shrug, more preoccupied in scouting for Rosslyn than in his worthless teenage boy troubles. "Maybe I'm just not that interested in you."

"'Not that interested!' I gave you a corsage. And you accepted!" He's fuming by now, practically foaming at the mouth.

"It's more of a formality than any-"

He grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me. "What else can I do to get it through that worthless little head of yours that I am the best you'll get! Maybe I shouldn't be surprised, though, since you spend all your time with some brain-dead loser who can't talk-"

Nate crashes to the ground, courtesy of my fist slamming into his face. He lands awkwardly, which makes sense considering he literally has no idea what just hit him. But once he does, he's on his feet in an instant and swinging right back at me. Luckily, his anger at being punched by a girl eclipses my anger at his comments about Mitchie so that I'm in control of the fight. Most of his wild, desperate punches miss me and I manage to block a few as well as land a couple on him. Fighting isn't usually my style, but how he acted toward Mitchie stirred a certain protective feeling inside of me that I've never experienced before; it's like how I feel about keeping Max safe from the horrors of this compound, only in a much more intense and intimate way. If that makes sense.

Soon enough, Rosslyn breaks up the fight and I start to get scared. Dog-shit scared. She's going to kill me; she's going to _motherfucking_ kill me. Nate's her baby, her youngest son. He means the world to her. "Alexandra- I see we've broken Cardinal Atrocity number 5 once again. You know the punishment?"

I nod with fake enthusiasm. "23 lashes. Bring it on."

"Now, now. _That _kind of attitude simply won't do," Rosslyn says. She looks around at the crowd that has gathered to watch Alexandra Russo get punished once again. "But... I think I may have an alternative."

The next thing I know I'm being forcibly dragged to the Enforcers barracks with Mitchie in tow. They don't say anything, but I'm fairly certain they're going to make her watch again. And for her sake, I'll have to keep myself from showing any pain. I can't let her know what they're doing to me, or it might break her. I have to protect her.

Rosslyn shoves me into the wall and calls Damien from inside, but doesn't direct him toward me. Instead, she turns the Enforcer to Mitchie, who's cowering in a corner. "Damien, I want, eh, ten lashes on this girl. It is first time, after all. And we need to be gentle." This is said with a wink, and I can't even begin to imagine what Rosslyn's referring to until I see the look of stark white terror on Mitchie's face; not terror at the whip, but terror at whatever Rosslyn just implied. Terror at the trauma.

"No! She didn't do a fucking thing! Punish me! It's my fault! You can't do this!" I shout desperately, fighting to get closer to Mitchie, but Rosslyn slams me against the wall and pins both of my arms there. With no other way to fight back, I spit directly into her face. Stupid goddamned fucking whore. Rosslyn barely even flinches.

She inches in until she is barely centimeters from my face. "I can _do_ whatever I want, Ms. Russo. And one day you will learn to obey. But until that day comes, we will keep teaching you a lesson. There's always a value in the lesson."

"Not Mitchie!" I'm bawling by now, sobbing at the sight of my best and only friend about to get whipped because of me. But even though I'm crying, I will not look away. I will watch, because that's what good friends do. The first CRACK is the hardest to get over because Mitchie, unlike me, reacts to it. She lets the tears fall freely from her eyes as her whole body shakes with the reverberations of the whip attack. I'm scared that she won't be able to handle the ten, but eventually it's over and Rosslyn turns to me.

"There, dear. Did that teach you a lesson?" Her smile is so crooked that I feel as though no one will ever make it straight again.

"Only that you're a sadistic bitch," I reply with a snap, not thinking about potential consequences.

"At least you learned something."

Humiliated and disgusted with myself, I rush out into the cold night air the second I can. Rosslyn doesn't attempt to follow me, but I don't think Mitchie does either. I make it to the edge of the forest before I throw myself on the ground and collapse in a heap of horrible, horrible feelings that make it damn near impossible to think about anything but the negatives. I can't believe how foolish and reckless I've been; ridiculous that I would let things escalate that far. I do need to learn to hold my place, if only to keep Mitchie safe. Because I can't lose her, and the world can't lose her. She is much too special.

Speaking of her, I feel her come and lie down next to my side and cover me with her body like an innocent, lovely blanket. One that refuses to lie on its back. That action, that wince, serves as a reminder of just what I've put her through.

"Alex? You know you're still the most important person in my life, and the only person I would die without. It's OK to mess up; you were just trying to help. You're always just trying to help."


	9. Books

"I can't believe they did that to you! And it's all my fault!" We've moved out of the woods now and are back situated in our room, she on my bed and me pacing around the room.

"Alex, really, I'm fine. It wasn't that-"

"What? It wasn't that _bad_ is what you were going to say? They hurt you because of something that had nothing to do with you! Nothing at all!" I angrily kick at the bed, but keep my voice at a low growl so as not to wake up everyone else. They're all asleep, considering that it's a little before midnight. They wouldn't appreciate being woken up by what they probably considered my whining. Justin's most likely told my parents what happened and I'm going to get it in the morning. Which is OK. I deserve it.

Mitchie gets up from the bed and stands in front of me, blocking my pacing. She looks like she's about to cry, although that might be from the cream I put on her back a little while ago to help the lashes. She won't get scars from this one beating, I think, which is good. She shouldn't have to endure anymore. "Don't worry about that. It doesn't hurt me anymore; I've been through worse. And you were just trying to help- that's enough for me."

I sigh. "It doesn't help me to know that you've been through worse."

She resorts to not speaking again, just reaching out to touch my arm, her hand warm and calming on my skin. "Alex... for tonight, can we just forget about all of this? I'm too tired. I... I'm just tired."

Judging by the look in her eyes, I know that all this talking is too much for her. I can't expect her to be a chatter-box after being totally silent for a year. "Sorry. I guess I didn't realize... yeah." I speak awkwardly, but those are the last words of the night. We slip into bed, under the covers and she cuddles as close to me as possible. I feel her body heat spread throughout me, her slow breathing calming my stressed panting.

I lay awake there in the bed, running my fingers through her hair and staring out at the sliver of moon visible between the slit in my window blinds. I can't go to sleep because of all the questions still buzzing around in my mind. There are so many left unanswered and so many more whose answers didn't really answer anything. I mean, she's all I have left- her and Max. That's more than I've ever had in the past and I don't want to lose either of them, so I'll have to stop over-thinking these things. I don't want to sound like an insensitive moron when it comes to her.

Struggling too much with sleep, I decided to very carefully roll out of bed and head down to the kitchen to find something to eat or drink or just to stop this random bout of insomnia. Mitchie shifts a little as I sit on the edge of the bed, putting on socks. Her hand grasps at my waist, catching the last bits of fabric. I stand up and she groans, but I quickly remedy this by wrapping the blanket more tightly around her. She snuggles into it, still a little upset from the cold, but it's better. I kiss her on the forehead. "I'll be back."

Down the hall, everything is dark. I mean pitch black. I can't even see my hand up against my face. The only door open is Max's, and the light from the moon doesn't reach through the trees surrounding his window. I hold onto the banister by the stairs to keep from falling over. As I descend, I notice that there's a light shining from the kitchen. I'm scared, fearing that it's my father or mother or worst of all, Justin. But in the end it turns out to Max, just sitting there by himself and eating one of Mom's homemade orange ice pops from the freezer. She lets us have those whenever and always has a constant supply, even as the summer fades away. Heck, right now we're in the middle of September and the fridge is still full of them.

"Hey, Max," I say as I grab one of the pops out of the freezer.

He nods in my general direction. "Can't sleep?"

I shrug and sit down, watching his monotonous licking of the freeze pop. "Lots on my mind."  
"I heard about what happened- with the Enforcers," he whispers, getting down to business. "Justin told me just before you came home. He seemed pretty upset that you ruined his chance with Mitchie."

Without thinking, I blurt out, "He never had a chance."

"I know." Max smiles secretively at me like he's figured out something he should be too young to comprehend. Maybe he knows exactly how Mitchie and I feel about each other, maybe he just knows that we're so close that she would never give Justin a chance to do anything but grovel for forgiveness. I can't quite get a handle on how much he's gotten, even with my new abilities to be more sensitive to body language.

I think of a quick subject change to take it away from me and Mitchie. "So what about you? Found any good friends?"

He shakes his head and laughs quietly. Then the laughter goes away and he eyes his freeze pop with an intensity I've never before seen used on a fruit concoction. "There's no one here for me." His eyes have returned to mine, staring at me with the gaze of someone with many more than his thirteen years. "I mean, to have me and you and Mitchie, all in one compound, it would just be too much." Max looks so sullen, so sad, so... suicidal. Not quite, but almost. "The stars can only align in one pattern at a time. Sometimes you just have to wait for the pattern to shift in your favor."

"Wow, Max; where'd you get that?" I ask at his quote.

"I read it somewhere... I can't remember where, though," he replies.

I nod, taking this as a good response until- "Wait a minute. Where did you read it?"

"I told you I can't remember-"

"No, I mean where did you get the book from?" I say. We're not allowed to read any books outside of the schoolhouse or one of the chapels because they're all afraid we'll get the wrong idea from the book and rebel.

He leans in and whispers conspiratorially. "I'll show you." Quickly, he gets up and heads out of the door and into the night. Curious and cautious, I follow him around the back of the house, to the wall right below his window and right next to the trees. There's very little moonlight to see by, but he seems to know where he's going.

The two of us make our way to a little patch of grass. I can't really tell what's so special about it until Max picks up the shovel leaning against the wall and begins to dig. I can only assume he put it there when he discovered... whatever this is.

"Do you need any help?" I feel useless just standing around and watching him.

"Do you see two shovels?" Damn. He has me there. "It's not buried very deep at any, rate." Sure enough, his shovel runs into something hard and metal a couple of seconds after he says that. "I just put a layer or so of dirt on it, so people don't accidentally discover it."

I squint at the large metal plate in the ground, not really discerning anything from its appearance. Max grabs onto something I can't quite make out and yanks hard back on it. Clearly that something was a ring or similar object because he's actually thrown open the entrance to what looks like a cellar. "Max, where are we going?"

"In the early days, this place was a storage center for books. Some people wanted to burn them, some wanted them to be read freely, some wanted to use them to teach kids what not to do. At any rate, they all ended up here and no one could decide what to do with them. Eventually, they were forgotten about when they converted this into our house. Someone's journal is down here, too, which is how I know all this stuff. This is the only entrance to the cellar. And I just... found it one day. While digging." I raise my eyebrows at him as he lights a small lamp with a match. "Digging makes me stop being angry. And there's no electricity down here, so I have a lamp." I nod, but I'm not really paying attention. I'm thinking about his one sentence- "Digging makes me stop being angry." I never realized how much frustration Max has inside of him, and I guess it's true that boys typically react to that with fists instead of tears. But it has never occurred to me how bleak his life his: on one hand, perfect Justin with his perfect future with the Shepherds, and on the other, there's me- rebel, trouble-maker, and an all-around antagonistic force in this hellhole. And then there's Maxie, somewhere in the middle: not quite wild, not quite perfect. It would be weird to grow up in that type of environment, I think. I might be in the middle age-wise, but Max is in the middle mentally. That would throw off my feelings, too. Plus, it would be harder to make friends, I assume, with us being his siblings. Maybe that's why he's so quiet and so different.

We step down into the dampness. I find my breath almost caught in my throat at the sight of the books- there's not as many as I would picture to be in a library, but it's more than I've ever seen in my life. Filled with a sort of tingly anticipation, I snatch the lamp from Max and move closer to the books. I've never been much of a reader, but all I've ever had presented to me is the Bible and we're not even allowed to read that by ourselves. I haven't heard of any of these titles before, but I can't wait to read them.

Max is smiling beside me, looking prouder than I have ever seen in my life. "Do you like it?"

"I've never seen anything so fucking nice before," I reply. "You don't know how much I've wanted to see what it's like out there, somewhere where I wouldn't ostracized like hell, somewhere that I fit in-"

"I know," he says seriously. "Believe me, I know."

I put my arm around his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I've never really looked at things from your point of view, I guess."

"Most people don't. C'mon; there's one I want you to read first." He leads me over to the shelf farthest in the back and pulls out a tattered paperback from the bottom stack. "Here." I look at the cover: a man, burning in awkward flames. "_Fahrenheit 451._ It's about burning books. I think you'll like it." He doesn't say anymore as he takes the lamp from my hands and sets it on the floor next to a solid bit of wall.

I sit down, turn to the first page, and begin to read.

_It was a pleasure to burn._

"Alex. Alex!" I wake up to my little brother's voice shaking me from sleep. He looks slightly anxious, but not overly worried. The book still lays atop my slowly breathing chest, and I remember where I am. "It's about three. You fell asleep, and I didn't want you to stay down here asleep. If you want to stay, you can, but I'm going to sleep." I notice he has a book tucked under his arm: _A Tale of Two Cities_ by Charles Dickens.

"What's that one about?" I ask, nodding to the book.

He shrugs. "Something called the French Revolution- it's explained in one of the history textbooks over there. I like the characters, though. How did you like that one?"

Memories of what I've read come back to me, causing a smile to form on my face. "It's like here, where they live. I can relate to the society- I like it. It's nice to know that people care enough to fight like we have to, even if they are fictional."

"Are you coming back with me? Or do you want to read some more?" he asks again, though he's grinning now, which I assume means that he's happy with my reaction.

I take his hand and squeeze it, relieved and excited and joyful to have found my little brother again. "Yeah. Let's go." I drop the book back onto the shelves and we exit into the night.

Moments later I'm snuggled up in bed next to Mitchie and still nowhere near ready for sleeping. Luckily, it seems like she's awake as well. "What are you doing up so late?"

She blushes, afraid to say the real reason. "I woke up and you weren't here next to me, and it was weird. I got around to worrying about you, and I've just stayed up."

I'm grinning instead of blushing when she finishes. "That's awfully sweet of you. I think you deserve a kiss for it." I kiss her right on the lips, full of a certain form of passion that we have yet to experience. It's so much more intense and when I pull away for air, it's like I'm compelled to dive back in again. She is too, because we crash together; lips, hands, legs, bodies all moving and touching with some form need- like I wouldn't be able to go on if I didn't keep every part of myself in constant contact with every part of her. Things go on a little bit further as her hand gently slides up and down my back, my body shivering in time with the motion. I'm feeling adventurous, intense, and wild, so I slide my hand up from her waist and over her stomach. I hear her breath hitch, which sounds like a good noise from my point of view. Dangerously, I allow my hand to brush the side of her breast as I move upward.

Wrong move. She lets out a yell and jumps away from me, out of the bed, flattens herself against the wall. "Get away from me!" she screams, tears filling her eyes as she pants like she's just run up here from the woods.

I can do nothing but sit on the bed in total shock. What the hell is going on? I can't believe I hurt her again... she's so broken over there, on the brink of complete collapse, ready to let it all go. I know that I want to tear my eyes away but if I made her go through these tremors then the least I can do is try to suffer with her. There's nothing left for me to say to this wonderful girl who I've managed to destroy; there is nothing left to do until she is willing to accept whatever I can offer.

Soon enough, her world stops spinning and she slowly drags herself to the floor in a heap of tears. I cautiously make my way over to her, each step I take putting another crack in my already damaged heart. "Mitchie...?"

"It reminded me of him too much, Alex... I'm so sorry." She lets out a fresh bout of wails, and I know that it's OK for me now. Sitting down next to her, I wrap my arms around her and pull her tight and close until I can feel her heartbeat pounding, meshing, melding with my own. Our rhythms are slightly off, not matching up perfectly, portraying accurately the sense of confusion surrounding our relationship at this moment.

She lets me hold her, wipe away her tears for a moment, before she speaks again. "What he did to me, Alex..."

"Who, Mitchie, who? Just tell me; I'm there." I feel the anger returning to my veins, the protectiveness kicking in, my devil side bringing itself out all in the name of an angel.

"A man... from Cascadia. Name's not important. He... oh, God." Tears flow like water from a waterfall, like sand in an hourglass, like rocks down a mountain. She's hardly able to breathe between the amount of water gushing from her eyes and the number of giant, shaking sobs that wrack her fragile body and push it warm and sad against mine.

I take an enormous gulp of air, excited and scared to be on the verge of learning what happened to Mitchie. "What did the man do, Mitchie? How did he hurt you?" I run my fingers through her hair in a calming motion. Her breathing gets closer to normal and the sobbing slows down as I let my fingers wash through her hair and twist it and turn it in a peaceful motion.

She takes a deep breath, ready to tell. I can sense it; she's going to tell me, I can just feel it. "He... he... he _raped_ me!"

Mitchie says the last part in a whisper, but it might as well have been a blood-curling scream.


	10. Speak

**A/N: I know this is shorter than usual, but it felt nice to end there. I also learned during this chapter that legit anger is a lot harder to write than sadness. Not sure how it turned out... Also, I think Mitchie might be a little too cheesy here. Eh. I'm not terribly sure.**

I am completely floored. I don't even properly know what rape even _means_: I know that God punished the citizens of Sodom and Gomorrah for raping the angels, and that it involves some form of sex, but since I don't really know much about sex, that doesn't help much. All I can really distinguish from her horrified gaze is that it is probably one of the most terrifying, torturous experiences on this planet. Probably even worse than the whip.

"Mitchie... I don't know where to start with this," I confess, ashamed to be so out of my league when it comes to helping her understand all this.

I get a sigh in return, but I keep waiting. She has more to say, I can tell, though it might take her a while to spit it out. This experience is what pushed her into silence to begin with. She stares at me, eyes wide, like she _so_ wants to speak to me but can't quite manage it. "It's OK- whenever you're ready, I'll be here. Unless of course I've already left for Cascadia to fuck up the ass of every single guy there."

She giggles happily at my sentence in a complete change of pace. "I like it when you curse."

Now I'm giggling, too. This bipolar conversation is almost perfect for the emotions we've experienced over the course of our relationship. "No one's ever said that to me before. Usually I get stony glances."

"No, really." Mitchie's still giggling as she says this. "It reminds me that you're not like everyone else around here. And especially not like... not like Rodney." _Rodney_. The name makes me upset all over again. I wish I could get a face on this guy, something to identify Rodney. Something I can picture when I pummel my fist into my pillow tonight.

I hug her close to me, hoping to never stop. "Rodney, huh? I think I can kick the ass of some pansy named Rodney."

"I know you're trying to help, Alex, but can we please... can we just be quiet?" she almost begs of me. "For a while, at least?" In response, I just scoot even more into her body, adjusting our position so that she's sitting between my legs, head resting peacefully on my chest. I look down at her, beautiful with her eyes shut and breathing deep. Pressing a kiss to her temple, I allow my own anger to calm down with the slow tapping she's doing on my hand that's under hers, both of them resting on her stomach. She falls asleep in my arms after a couple of minutes, but clearly isn't having peaceful dreams.

Mitchie twitches like a rabbit and squirms like a baby as she continues to drift off into this slumber world. I can guess what's going on in her mind, but I can't do much about it except restrain her and whisper in her ear, which seems to work some of the time. I know she wants me to be quiet. I just can't help it when it comes to her; every nerve in my body screams at me to do _something_ for her, anything at all. I'm trying, I'm trying so hard. But somehow I know it's not enough; there should be something more, I think. Another level to make her feel more comfortable. I just don't know how to get there, and it brings me back into an intensely frustrated state again. Everything is so monumentally fucked up because some idiots decided that torture and brainwashing was a good start for a society.

And then I start to get profoundly outraged at every goddamned thing in this worthless, piece of shit compound: Rodney, Rosslyn, Todd, the Shepherds, the Mother, the Father, my parents, Justin, Nate-

It takes everything in me not to just scream out at the top of my lungs, not to punch the living daylights out of everyone here. I can't _stand_ it anymore. I can't fucking _stand_ it! Mitchie and Max don't deserve all this pointless, worthless shit they've had to deal with their entire lives; it's all gone to fucking hell, though I don't think it really was anywhere else. I feel the world crashing down on me, two painfully different experiences tearing this night to pieces and I'm not sure how much more of this I can handle. I desperately want to be there, stronger than what we're fighting against, for them. How much longer I have the ability to do that is a mystery. This place is finally taking its toll on me- I've been able to get by because I care about nothing. But now I have two people to look out for and this is just too goddamned fucked up for me! Where does Alex Russo fit into all this shit, all these lives? What the fuck am I to these people? A lover, a protector, a sister, a friend? Well, that's just dandy, but then what am I _really_? How much am I _worth_? Shit, is what. Max, Mitchie- they'd be better off with someone who understands humans as more than just things. I don't know how to deal with any of this! All I ever manage to do is screw shit up; that's it. I don't know how to help well enough to make a difference. I can't be all those things- I've never been anything but an unsuccessful rebel. Useless, pointless, _worthless_.

I don't even notice that there are tears streaming down my face until Mitchie stirs and asks, "Alex? Why are you crying?"

"I'm not good enough," I find myself saying. "I'm not fucking good enough."

"Not good enough for what?" she prods quietly.

I can't quite contain my emotion. "For you! For Max! For everybody!" She knows exactly what to do, rolling away from me so that I can stand and pace. "You'd be much better off with someone else, someone who knows what's going on, someone who knows how to give a shit about other people-"

"Alex!" Her voice is louder than I've ever heard before, and even though it's not as loud as mine, it feels like a sweeping clap of thunder has just passed through the room.

I turn around quickly, my movements flashing like the lightning. "What? You can't tell me that you or Max wouldn't be better off with someone else! I don't know a fucking thing about this kind of shit, nothing! There's sure as hell someone who could be doing a better job than this! Hurting Max for nine years, freaking you out, getting you whipped! Yeah- that's a hell of a job I'm doing. I'm just a rebel, and I'm bringing you both down with me."

She keeps her distance, looks at the floor, assumes a very defensive body position, but her voice resounds loud and strong with the tone of a bell. "Rebels always have the biggest hearts... otherwise they wouldn't keep fighting. And you always know that whatever they do, they're going to fight for it because they know nothing else. You know nothing but to keep fighting, and I know that that's what I want, what I need: someone to fight for me when I can't. There is no one more suited to that than you, Alex."

I turn away as she lifts her head; I still feel unworthy of the praise, and there are still unanswered questions. "But then what does that make me? A rebel? A guardian? A warrior? There's so much I can be, so much. I just don't know which one it is!" I angrily lash out, kicking at the bed and ripping the sheets off it. I chuck them at the floor where they land in a noiseless, tangled heap.

"Maybe you're just indescribable." I check her face to make sure that she's not joking, that this is a serious request. "Really... you're something else, Alex. Different. But different, in the end, is what allows you to keep on going."

"You think so?"

She smiles a watery smile, and I know that she realizes how important this is to me. My identity has been so warped in these past months that Mitchie has been here, with everything from friendship to romance to a real sibling bond. "I guess I can't be only one thing anymore. Or rather I'm discovering that there's more to me than I thought there was. It's scary."

"Trust me; you're not alone." We don't say anything more to each other as our eyes slowly lift off the carpet and meet. While the general motion is gradual, the actual connection is such a snap that it feels like we both know the exact moment to lift our heads subconsciously. Mitchie's not smiling anymore, but actually looking rather broken, and a pang of guilt pierces me like a sword at how self-centered I've been all night.

"Mitchie, I'm sorry I gave you all of my issues. I know tonight was about you and Rodney and what he did to you, and not about me at all-"

"Alex. Tomorrow is about Rodney- I know I can't talk about it tonight. It's... too much." And in the dim light of a waning moon, I watch with bated breath as one single tear flows tragically down her cheek. The indication that she's too far gone to waste a full session of tears dwelling on this rips my heart out harder and more thoroughly than a total breakdown would have done. "Alex?"

"Yeah?"

She's almost holding her breath, I can see, like she knows it might make it worse if she says what's clearly on the tip of her tongue. "I really want to kiss you right now, but-"

"I know." Without another word (because we've had enough of those for one night), I grab her hand, squeezing it tightly and then let it drop after about five seconds. I don't want to hurt her anymore. Carefully and slowly, I make my way over to my bed, and I know that when she doesn't follow, something in her that had been mending the entire time she was silent has fractured again and is on the verge of shattering. I see it in her face, her eyes, her shakes as she goes to her own bed silently and slips in without a noise. For a while, I watch her slowly drift off to sleep and only after it has become painfully apparent that she's not coming back to me tonight do I let my eyelids droop, making sure to leave half the bed open just in case.


	11. Flowers

**A/N: I wrote all but 300 words of this in less than 3 hours, so I apologize if it's a little rushed. I just wanted to give you something else before I leave for band camp in like 30 minutes. So, just to tell you, this will be the last post until at least Friday- that's the day we get back. After being deprived of writing for a week, I'll probably be able to crank one out Friday night unless I pass out. But you can definitely expect one by Saturday. So... yeah. Here's chapter 11; hope it's enjoyable.**

Days pass without any mention of Rodney or the rape or my breakdown. In fact, Mitchie barely speaks during those days. I make a conscious effort to stay out of trouble so as not to hurt her anymore. No matter what she told me the other night, I still feel a little inadequate and have been trying to not make any more mistakes. Mitchie's noticed this, but I don't think that she wants to say anything, to just let me go my own way for right now until I sort this out. Which is probably a good thing, since I've spent the last few days walking on eggshells around her so as not to stress her out.

Nothing is worse than this awkward feeling we have between us right now. The fact that we act so strange together is horrible, because it gives Justin and Nate perfect excuses to try and speak with us. Nate, even though I basically destroyed him at the dance, keeps trying to get near me. His sadistic mother is enabling this, always pushing him on me during break time and whenever she gets the chance. I have to sit through each painful advance with a pretend courtesy because I don't want to get into anymore trouble.

Being without Mitchie is tearing me apart, but I know that the only way I'll ever be able to get things back to how they used to be is if I step up and admit that I have done a good job, even if I do need a little help myself sometimes. For some reason, that's ridiculously difficult for me to do. And it's hurting her more and more every day that I can't manage to wrap my mind around this concept.

Today, though, it's even worse. Break time has just started, and Mitchie has wandered off to go to the bathroom or something like that. I think she just might want to escape the awkward situation I've created. At any rate, Nate sees this as a prime opportunity to strike up a conversation with me. I see it in his sped up walk, his quick and casual good-bye to the friends he's walking with, and most of all in his giant smile. Stretching my memory back as far as it goes, I can never recall a time that he's smiled this widely- I only remember a handful of times that he's smiled at all.

"Hey, Alexandra," he greets, plopping down next to me in the grass. For an early fall day, it's certainly sunnier and warmer than usual. To me, this seems ironic, as the whole week has been this way, just as Mitchie and I have started to fall apart.

I don't bother telling him to call me Alex, because I've started to see it as a sort of nickname that only my brother and Mitchie can use. "Hi, Nate." I don't say anything more nor give him any indication that I'm thoroughly invested in this conversation. Because really, I'm not. I just want Mitchie back.

He stares at me blankly and blinks a couple of times before getting a very intense and serious look on his face. "You know I meant it when I gave you that corsage, right?"

"Yeah," I reply quietly. There is no doubt in my mind that he's fishing for more of an answer, something to confirm that I, too, wish to receive his affections.

"That's a great response," he spits out sarcastically. "But I was thinking more along the lines of, 'Yeah, Nate, I'm really glad you gave it to me?'"

Stupidly, brainlessly, tiredly, I sputter out, "I can't lie to you."

Nate seems to have gotten better at controlling his anger because he does not blow his top at me like he usually tries to do. His fists remain unclenched in his lap and his face impressively retains his traditionally stoic expression. "Then I'll just have to try harder."

"Nate, there is nothing in this world that would make me want to become your wife in four years," I tell him honestly. Maybe it's just because I've kept my emotions mostly to myself since the blow-up, but I find it easy to open up to Nate in a very cautious and incomplete way.

He sighs, clearly frustrated, but still stops himself from harming me. "What is it that you want? Because I can give it to you."

I think of Mitchie: of her generous heart, of her quiet strength, of her subtle yet stunning beauty. And then I look at the boy in front of me: his misogynist views, his wild switches of emotions, his constantly brooding features. There is no comparison. "No, Nate, you can't. You really can't."

"Then who _can_!" He's getting closer to the Nate I know, his voice now raised just a little bit and the anger punctuating his calm eyes.

I really don't know how to answer that question. On one hand, it would be easy to reply with Mitchie's name, but at the same time we're still in a very strange place. It's like we've already fought a war together, but now we're scared to leave the house because of everything we've seen. And whose fault is that? Not hers- she did everything she could to make me see the reason, to make me understand that I have been doing the right thing all along. But really, who am _I_ to say if I've been doing the right thing to help her? If it's for her benefit, the only wrong way is the way that she doesn't approve of, the way that makes her want to run from me just to be rid of my horrible help. She's not begging to be let go of; she's begging to be taken care of. In the end, it's all about her in this case. And all I have to do is be what I was before, not worrying about my end of the deal, because it never was a deal to begin with. It was just a friendship that turned into another sort of relationship all together. We both need to get back to that, and it's up to me to make it work.

"Alexandra!" Nate nearly shouts at me, dragging me back into the regular world as a plan starts to form in my head. "Who can? Who can give you what you need!" He's so pissed off at nothing that if I wasn't so occupied in this thought process, I would find it absolutely hilarious.

"For right now, me." That's all I reply with as I dash back up the hill toward our house, on the look-out for both Max and Mitchie. I run into Mitchie first, coming out of our house with a very pretty flower in her head. Even though things are strained, it still makes me smile to see her so happy and in such a cute state from head to toe. How could that not make me smile?

"Mitchie!" I call out, stopping her from going further. "I need to talk to you, but first, where'd you get the flower?"

She whispers very quietly so that I have to lean in closer to hear. It's intoxicating and exhilarating to be so near to her again after a couple of days of almost no contact. "Max. We've been chatting."

This makes me beam even more, and gives me the extra confidence boost I need to make my plan work. "That's excellent, Mitchie, really. You know how much you both mean to me. And to show you how much you mean, I have a request. Meet me tonight, at the back of the house under Max's bedroom window. At, say, 10? I want to show you how much I care." I'm almost begging for this, which is normally beneath me, but when it comes to Mitchie, I'm prepared to do anything to win back her trust.

I only receive a head nod and the softest of fleeting grins in response as she walks off towards the forest, but that's enough for me.

Sprinting, I make it to the house in no time. Mom and Dad are both out working in their respective jobs around the compound to make sure that it stays self-sustained, so I don't see them lounging around the house. Justin's usually up at the chapel around this time either praying or talking up the Shepherds. No one will be around to interrupt my conversation with Max, if I can find him. The house is totally deserted I gather after my quick scan. I even call his name out a couple of times but get no response. There's only one other place he might be.

As I predicted, I stumble upon Max beside the entrance to the cellar. He's just sitting contentedly against the cold stone of our house, staring up at the few clouds in the sky like they're the most fascinating things on this planet. And really, if I think about it with the knowledge that he's gained from books, they probably are. He drums his fingers lightly on the shovel that rests limply in his lap.

"Hey, Maxie." His whips around for a few seconds before he finds me, which results in a happy look.

"Alex. This is surprising," he admits.

"I need a favor," I tell him sheepishly. I don't want to meet his eyes, so I focus on the tip of the shovel. There's fresh dirt on it. "Have you been digging?" I ask worriedly. I know what digging means in his world.

He shrugs. "I was. Then Mitchie came and talked to me." I don't think that I've appreciated the bonds of friendship more than I do right now.

I'm waiting in front of the cellar at 10:15, getting more and more anxious as the minutes pass by. I've got it all set up- in fact, I set it up two hours ago, I'm so excited. And scared. Can't forget scared. I think I might die if she hates it, if we can't get back to trust.

Finally (I feel like I've been waiting for years) Mitchie appears, trudging around the edge of the house and fumbling in the dark. She looks adorable doing so, but I don't want her to trip so I call out, "Mitchie!"

I'm hard to spot under the moon's low light, but she eventually finds her way to me. "Sorry about the delay. Your parents were sitting in the living room forever; I had to wait for them to clear out. Max helped with that, though: he faked a coughing fit. I take it he knows about this?"

I nod, so overwhelmed with her positive reaction to meeting me here. "I couldn't have done it without him. C'mon." I've already dug out the dirt from around the cellar and lit the lamp, which is sitting on the stairwell. Thrusting open the doors, we see it cast an eerie glow on the walls, the floors, the shelves.

"Alex..." Mitchie squints apprehensively at the dark unknown, more than a little panicky at the situation in front of her.

Extending my hand to her as I put my foot on the first step, I whisper calmly, "It's OK. There's nothing creepy once you get down there, I promise. Just trust me."

She glances back and forth: my hand, the cellar, my hand, the cellar, my hand-

She takes it loosely, lightly, barely hard enough for me to feel the pressure her fingers put on my own, but I can still feel the warmth. I can always feel the warmth.

I pick up the lantern as we descend the stairs slowly, just for her. She's getting less and less frightened with each step we take, probably because she can see the multitude of candles I've placed in each row. It took me ages to wrangle them all, having to root through Mom and Dad's private storage. Max helped with that, too. I'll have to thank him with a giant hug in the morning.

In addition to the candles, I've located more of the flowers that Max put in her hair earlier and sprinkled their petals across the floor in a sort of random pattern. I've never been much of an artist. Also, with different flowers (large and white with a bit of purple mixed in), I made her a crown just like the one she made me in the early, early stages of our relationship. I don't forget these things, and I know how much she loved the crown. The crown is way in the back, though, for later. I've gone so far as to plan out what I'm going to say. I've never cared about anyone or anything enough to go to this extreme, to have everything so meticulously planned.

"Alex... what is this place?" Her eyes are full of wonder as her shoeless feet sweep across the floor, knocking the petals in all sorts of directions. She drags me along with her in this exploration, as she refuses to let go of my hand. And I am certainly not relinquishing hers.

I quickly give her the same story that Max told me the other night. "I added the petals, though, and the candles."

She spins around and looks me straight in the eye. "I love it, Alex. This is probably the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me."

"One more thing." I dash off into the back to get the crown for her and place it gently on her head. "Remember? One of the first days, and you-"

"I remember," she replies softly, brushing her fingers against the flowers. "Alex... I love you."

"What?" My voice is barely raised now, my heart praying that my ears haven't deceived me. At Havenwood (and presumably Cascadia), that sentence is reserved for romantically entangled married or engaged couples. Even friendship isn't defined in terms of love here; just the "holy union of marriage" and our relationship with God.

Sensing that my question was more out of shock than disagreement, she reiterates: "I"- she points her finger at herself- "love"- she makes a heart out of her hands, and I let myself laugh- "you"- she gently rests her finger on my shoulder. I take both her hands in mine and press our foreheads together.

"I love you, too," I reply, meaning every last word. I never thought I'd say that phrase with any real sincerity, but here I am, and I don't think that I will ever mean it more than I do right now.

Ever so slowly, she leans closer and gives me a kiss. It's soft but yet full of passion. I don't let go of her hands as we kiss; if anything, I hold on a little tighter. We finally let the contact between our lips end, but our position is rapidly turned into a bone-crushing hug as she grips me with the intensity of a drowning person gripping the edge of a boat. "I want to tell you about Rodney. Tell you everything, because I know that I can. I know that I can, and you'll do exactly what I need you to."

Smiling into her shoulder, I say, "I've figured that out now; I understand that your comfort- it's about you. And I'm not going to complain, because if I've managed to make you love me, I'm doing something right."

She giggles and kisses my cheek as she releases me. Mitchie holds my hand and leads me over to a wall, the same one I leaned against while reading _Fahrenheit 451_ earlier this week. "He was a Shepherd at Cascadia," she begins quietly. "He was good friends with my parents, and they had him and his wife over for dinner all the time. His son Ben came too, but we were never interested in each other in any way. Rodney, however, took a special interest in me. He told my parents that I had special talent, and that I could easily become a Shepherd one day with a little extra effort. Overjoyed, my parents asked him to tutor me." A sob escapes her, proving her stolid composure is simply an act. One that will crumble any moment now. I wrap my arm around her shoulders and use my other one to draw her close, allowing it rest tenderly on her lap. She takes her hand, entwines her fingers with mine, settles her head on my shoulder, breathes deeply, and bravely plows on.

"The lessons went well for a while- I learned a lot about the Bible and I still probably know more than all the adults here except for the Shepherds themselves. Then it started to get really weird. At first, I didn't notice. He just put his hands on my shoulders, hugged me, stuff like that. Nothing overly horrible, but enough to make me suspect. I... I couldn't tell my parents." Tears fill her eyes, and I understand that the knowledge her parents would trust the Shepherd more than their own daughter hurts her almost as much as what Rodney did.

She doesn't say anything for a moment, but I know she needs to get this out, so I prod her. "What happened next?"

"Rodney- R-" She gives a frustrated sigh as she tries to get on with it. "One lesson, he insisted that we go to his house. Usually, it was in the High Chapel. But n-not then. N-n-not that day." Her speech becomes more broken up, more hesitant, more stuttered. We're getting close. "He l-led me to the back room- bed was there. Told me to- told me to sit on it. I, me- didn't know any better. Sat. He- he kissed me. Kissed me hard, p-pushed me down. Pulled my dress, up, up, up- off. Naked. Took off his clothes, he. Me- p-p-paralyzed. On top of me, put-put my h-hands... everywhere. Gross. Weird. Wanted to scream, but he k-kissed me. K-k-kept kissing me. Everywhere. K-kissed me... everywhere. In me. It... I... _hurt_. H-hands all over me... everywhere- touching, squeezing, _hurt_. F-finished. Left me. Crying, crying, crying and then- nothing. For a year." I try to let absolutely none of my emotions show, except for concern. I can't keep that in. But I can keep in the tears. I _have_ to keep in the tears because she's sobbing more than enough for both of us.

All I can do is hug her closer, gently lay my head on hers, and pray that she doesn't notice the droplets of water slowly, steadily falling from my eyes to her hair.

All I can smell is the flowers on her crown.


	12. Pain

"I need to get out of here." Mitchie taps me on the shoulder as soon as the light enters our bedroom. We're curled up on both of our beds, which we pushed together last night after I half-carried her up the stairs because she could barely control her entire body as it wracked with sobs. For a moment, I was afraid that she would go back to her silence, but right as we laid down, she kissed the skin by my ear and whispered, "Thank you."

Now I'm slowly waking up to her soft voice, groggy and completely exhausted from last night. "What?"

"I need to get out of here."

Instantly, I'm awake. I push myself away from her, scared that she's having relapse. I hobble off the bed and get to the far corner of the room before I dare to speak. "Do you need me to go? Am I making you uncomfortable? Is this-"

"Alex." She stops my rant with a little bit of a giggle. "I'm fine. I'd like you to come and sit with me again."

Tentatively, I shuffle my feet just a couple of inches closer to her. My voice is small as I ask the next question, the one encounter bleeding fresh in my mind. I still have to fight the urge to wince when I think about it. "Are you sure?" For some reason, the sight of her sitting still on my bed and looking so utterly confused and determined at the same time sends a flurry of moments rushing at me as they dance through my mind: last night, the confession, her first words, our first kiss-

"Mitchie?" I realize instantly the oddness about that first kiss; not that it wasn't absolutely mind-blowing and brilliant, but it was Mitchie who initiated the contact. Why?

She draws her knees up to her chest, like she's afraid my next move is going to break her heart. "Yes?"

I clear my throat, feeling slightly hesitant. That feeling probably comes from the fact that I don't want to hurt her again, not after last night when she told me she loves me. Not after we've just recovered from a disgustingly awkward patch in our relationship. But I need to know the answer. For some reason, it strikes me as important. "That very first time you kissed me- I want to know why you kissed me. As opposed to me kissing you, I mean, because you're not really all that aggressive. Whenever I pictured it happening, I was always kissing you."

She smirks at me after I say this. "I think it's cute how you pictured it." Just realizing what I had said, I blush a little bit, but she seems to find this entertaining as well considering that she giggles for just a moment before returning to her serious expression. "But honestly, I kissed you first because... I was scared that if I let you start off in control, I would lose all control I could have over this. And I- I just can't let that happened. Not after what happened with... yeah." She's close to tears again even though we both know she needed to make that explanation.

I slowly make my way back over to the bed. I'm just about ready to pull her into a hug when-

"MAX!" My father's voice thunders through the house followed by a large THUD onto what sounds like the wood of the landing. Worriedly, I rush out of the bedroom with Mitchie close behind me. We both are shocked to find Max sprawled out on the floor, his lip cut and a book thrown open in front of him. _1984_. His eyes are filled with tears, but he's not crying. Like me, my little brother is much too strong to let them see him cry.

I hurry over beside him to help him up, but that is over quickly as I feel something connect hard with my back, knocking me over. Mitchie stands nervously watching as my father pulls both me and Max up by our collars and holds tightly onto them. I almost feel like I'm suffocating due to his choke hold, like he's sucking all the life out of me. Max's face starts turning colors and tears drip from his eyes as if my father as squeezed them out of the small boy. He looks so young to me at this moment, so innocent.

"I knew you had something to do with this, Alexandra!" he seethes. "My youngest son! How could you! I always knew Max would never be Justin, but I never thought he'd be you either!" The last comment stings so much that I have to stop myself from physically wincing at it. No matter how many times I hear them say it, no matter how much I tell myself I don't care, insults from my family always cut deeper than I want them to. We learn at Havenwood how important family and its structure is, and how we're always supposed to care for and help each other. Maybe that's why it feels so painful whenever they act like I'm not one of them, like I'm a blemish on what would otherwise be a perfect record.

"I should have expected this from a _girl_!" my father spits out, his face raging and fluctuating between shades of red and purple. "A girl! Why did we have to have a girl!" When it comes to these sorts of comments, I have been beyond tears for a long time. Now I become limp; I just stop fighting and let it roll because somewhere it hurts to be such a disappointment to my family. I wish I could turn that part of me off, flip some sort of switch, but that's not possible.

In the end, though, I can't let Max get blamed for this. He doesn't deserve the kind of punishment I know he will receive and me, well, I've had worse. "Don't blame Max for this. I gave him the book!" I shout desperately, trying to get my father's murderous gaze away from Max's trembling face. It's hard for me to force that much noise out of my mouth due to the strong grip he still has on my collar.

"Why am I not surprised!" he roars, completely livid at this point. I sneak a glance at Mitchie, who is just standing terrified beside the bathroom. She shouldn't have to see this- it's not her fight. But then again, I suppose it is. Every one of her fights, I fight right with her because I love her and can imagine no other way to do things. So maybe she, too, is fighting for me, albeit in a very different way, but it's still making me nearly burst with pride. "Where did you get this book, Alexandra!"

Shit. I didn't think of that.

He shakes me violently, tossing me back and forth like I'm helpless in a hurricane. "Answer me!"

My brain twists and spins, but I can't think of a good explanation without revealing Max's secret lair. So I just throw out some ridiculous explanation, knowing that he won't believe me. My hope is that he'll become so preoccupied with my lies that he'll forget about Max and the book. "You wanna know where I got it? Fine. I dug a hole to the center of the earth, battled scary monsters, and then sold Justin's soul to the devil!"

SMACK.

My father has apparently released Max because he finds a way to slap me clear across the face, most likely leaving an enormous red mark on it. The sting hurts like hell, but I'm too shocked to react. With all the shit my father has thrown at me, he has never stooped to hitting me. The general rule is that physical punishment should be left to the Enforcers, but in dire situations, it is acceptable. Never has he resorted to this. Never. I honestly am about to cry.

"Stop it!" The voice rings out not from Max trying to help me, not from Justin running up to enforce the rules, not from my mother trying to calm my father down, but Mitchie, tears rolling down her cheeks as she stares my father in the eyes. Even through her tears, she looks so determined.

Hearing her cry out isn't that much of a shock to me, but then I remember my father doesn't know that she can speak. In his surprise he lets go of my collar and drops me through the ground. The impact sends a wave of pain through my entire body, though my neck opens up and I start to cough incessantly. I barely can lift my head off the ground as I turn to stare at Max's wide eyes; he's almost paralyzed with the fear of what will happen to the three of us next. I try to be brave for him, but I don't know if I possibly can.

Despite how vengeful and intense Mitchie looks, my father appears to be amazingly excited by her speech, which is understandable. I was, too. But still I wish she hadn't said anything. Now she'll be taken away from us, locked up in the High Chapel with the Shepherds all the time... I don't even want to know what kind of relapse that could easily bring back.

"Theresa! Theresa!" my father calls, excited as a small child receiving a piece of candy. "Go run for the Shepherds! Take Justin! Mitchie has finally spoken!" In his daze, he speeds down the stairs to find his wife and son whilst leaving myself, Mitchie, and Max to fend for ourselves. As soon as he disappears, Mitchie cuts the act and comes to us in a fit of concern. She reaches out to each one of us and pulls our winded trio into a group hug. Max looks a little uncomfortable with the physical contact at first, but he adjusts fairly quickly. I even feel his hand slip around behind Mitchie to hold my hand as it wraps around her waist.

"Are you two alright?" she whispers, probably because she thinks a softer voice will soften the blow.

Max nods his head as I reply, "I'm fine. What I'm worried about is you, though. Who knows what will happen now?"

"Alex," Max pleads. He's addressing me for the first time as though I'm his older sister, the one who is supposed to protect him from the evils of the world. "I don't want to be here anymore. I don't want to hide books and I don't want to get my lip split for reading them. I don't want Mitchie to have to go live with the Shepherds and I don't want you to get beaten. I don't want to listen to Dad yell and I don't want to hear Justin talk about God for one more second. I want to leave." I stare at him, his words mirroring Mitchie's from earlier this morning. "Please... take me from here." Upon closer inspection, it becomes clear that his eyes have turned red and puffy from crying and he's left the smallest bit of a watermark on Mitchie's shoulder.

Almost simultaneously, Mitchie and I lift our heads and lock eyes. We know what we need to do; not just for ourselves, but for Max as well. My gut latches onto my conscious like a leech, telling me that Max will be dead from suicide in a few years if we don't take him out of here. And myself- well, I can only last so long. And Mitchie- who knows what will happen to her when the Shepherds get a hold of her.

We don't have time to make a formal pact with words because my father comes rushing back up the stairs a second later, but I know that Mitchie understands the plan. We're leaving. As soon as possible.


	13. End

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Max's foot drums a steady rhythm against the creaky wooden floorboards of my room as he sits on my bed, biting his nails into tiny little stubs. Earlier, I tried to get him to stop, but quickly realized it was fruitless. We've been trapped in my bedroom since this morning when my father came to take Mitchie away to the Shepherds. He's locked us in here for now, promising to think of a proper punishment later because the Shepherds to come down and supervise the meeting with Mitchie since he apparently knows her the best. Bullshit. No one here knows a damn thing about Mitchie save for me and Max, and I'm not even sure how much he knows. But now I'm curious.

"Hey, Maxie?"

He takes his fingers away from his mouth to answer. "What?"

I take a deep breath, wondering how comfortable he is with me and how much he'll be willing to say. "The other day... when I found you by the cellar, after you had talked to Mitchie, what did you talk about?"

"With you?" Clearly my sentence structure has him confused.

"No. With Mitchie. You don't have to tell me, I just wondered-"

"How much I know?" He processes my taken aback look with a smile. "I'm more observant than you give me credit for. And as for how much I know? All of it, I think. She told me a little bit, implied a little more, and I inferred the rest." I wait for him to go on as he twiddles his thumbs, feeling weird about whatever he's about to say next. "She was raped, huh?" I nod slowly, sensing he has something else to say as he draws his knees in close to himself. "You and I barely even know what that means... and it happened to her. Doesn't that strike you as strange?"

I shrug. "I've never really thought about it that way before. But now that you mention it, I suppose it does."

"I've realized that I don't think about things the way most people do, I don't react the way they expect me to," he explains. "We talked about that, too, about how different you and I are from everyone else."

I snort at that. "No duh. We're the only ones who want to get out of this fucking hellhole."

He laughs nervously, shakes his head. "That's not what I mean. I think... even in the outside world, we wouldn't be normal. Mitchie thinks so, too. According to her, the way we respond to things is not an average reaction based on what she's seen around here."

"But everyone here is so screwed up- how the hell can they have a normal reaction?" I ask.

"It's not so much what people are reacting to, but _how_ they do it. Take the differences between you and Justin, for example. There were lots of kids like Justin in the beginning- I'm younger than you, so it's easier for me to remember those kids. There are always kids who will ask questions. I don't think there's a single kid in this place who hasn't seen the Enforcers at least once. It's just what kids do." He pauses to take a breath, for some reason slightly shaken. I go to sit next to him on the bed, though not to touch him. It's too early for that.

"Sad fact is, most of those kids will end up like Justin," he continues.

"That's not true," I immediately blurt out, simply because I want to believe in an underlying hope that doesn't exist within in the walls of this compound.

He smiles because he knows he's winning, but why he's winning turns it into such a bittersweet moment. "Oh, yeah? What about Lucas, who used to try and steal paper and crayons with you until you guys got caught? Or that girl Joanna who kissed Justin on the cheek once and then suddenly lost all interest in him? And Andrew, the boy who climbed trees with me, lied about it once, and never spoke to me again? Tom, who thought girls should be equal to boys? Jake, who wanted to be like the Mother instead of the Father? Ariel, who used to run around with her clothes off? Tess, who tried to steal pants? Ian? Adam? Megan? Hannah? George? Face it, Alex: when faced with what you deal with, most people break. But for some reason it has made you more determined. You don't react like the rest of the world. I guess that's a good thing, because otherwise you'd be just like the rest of them. I mean, yeah, I wouldn't know that you had the ability to be like this, but I'd missing be something. I'd be totally alone. So would Mitchie."

"I guess I'd rather be beaten and take everyone else's shit than not really alive," I mumble grumpily, vaguely upset that I'm not really much of an actual person but instead some sort of weirdo who doesn't react well.

Max seems to sense this because he scoots closer so that our legs are touching. "Maybe it makes your life harder, to be like that. To be different. But I think it's a lot less empty, when you really step back and look at it. I mean, everyone else? Their life is filled with people, and yours is filled with dreams- not only dreams, but goals. I think that in the end, your life will be so much more satisfying."

"Or so much shittier if I don't get those goals," I reply with a grumble. "My life sounds like too much of a fucking balancing act, the way you put it."

"Oh, I didn't come up with this all by myself. Mitchie helped," he says seriously. "It's true: your happiness is riskier than most people, but you are a risk taker, so I have no doubt you'll get there. To happiness, I mean."

I can't help but smile at the conviction in his voice. "You're really smart for a twelve-year-old, you know?"

"All I do is read and talk to two incredible girls: one of them who's been beaten within inches of passing out and the other who's been raped. And they both are still so strong. How could I not be smart?" He's come out into a full-on grin by now, wickedly smiling at me about his "clever" use of language. I can't help but scooping him into my arms, almost in a headlock position.

"What a great brother you are." It isn't until I finish this sentence that I realize we're both crying. God. So much fucking crying. I've done so much fucking crying this past week that I just want it to stop forever. If I never have to shed another tear, well, I'll probably be dead when that happens. Because life is kind of shit. And my life is kind of more shit than most people's. Or at least, I would suspect so.

"Alex?" he whispers.

"Yeah?"

"Are we really getting out of here?" He's changed from the smart, mature boy he was a moment ago into the age appropriate immature boy he really should be. He's too young to act this old.

"I hope so, Maxie, I hope so. We're planning it- I swear. Some day soon, I promise." I kiss him on top of the end. We sit like that for a bit, having the most profound brother-sister moment you could possibly have in total silence. I think as of now, our relationship is completely rebuilt. Everything we missed out on in each other's childhoods doesn't matter anymore, because we've found a more grown-up bond that means even more.

A soft knock sounds on the door and I know by its volume that it can't be anyone other than Mitchie. "Come in." I'm excited to see her again, but I'm afraid of what she will look like when I do.

She doesn't look nearly as frightened or hurt or broken as I thought she would, which is most definitely good news. "Thank God you two are OK."

"Us? We were more worried about you," I tell her, jumping up to give her a hug. I hold her tightly, almost afraid that if I let go she'll be sucked back into the High Chapel and locked away forever. "Are you OK?"

She nods into my shoulder, clutching at my back tightly. "I'll tell you- once you let me have enough room to talk." She's giggling again, and it's absolutely adorable and I don't want to let go, but I do anyway. We head back to the bed, sitting on either side of Max. She puts an arm around his shoulder and gives him a quick squeeze before releasing him. "It wasn't that bad. They just asked me lots of questions about what I heard when I was silent."

"What do you mean, 'what you heard?'" Max wonders.

"They thought I was silent because I was talking to God- remember Todd's speech?" He nods, recalling that awful sermon. "Well, now that I can talk, they I'll tell them about whatever God said. Only... I didn't. Because God didn't say anything to me." Judging by the tears pooling in her eyes, much of her silence was spent dwelling on the asshole-who-shall-not-be-named. "And it went on and on like that- plus they asked me all these questions about Genesis and the Apocalypse and all other sorts of predictions and complicated questions about the Bible. I just guessed on most of them, based on what I... what I l-learned. But they were, well, they didn't really enjoy it. Rosslyn got really angry, thought we might need to whip it out of me."

"They _what_?" Anger coursed through me like a boat on a wild sea, like a simmering flame being brought to a rapid boil. "That conniving bitch! I swear I'll fucking kill her, I swear-"

Mitchie puts her hand on my arm, silencing me. "It's OK. They didn't do... not today. T-Todd said that I was too holy, too precious for that. If God had intended that to happen, then I would have been begging for the torture. Which I wasn't."

"Do any of the Shepherds here know what R-Rodney did?" Max pipes up, stuttering a little. I think he's still very uncomfortable with the whole concept.

She contemplates this for a moment before answering. "I don't think so. Rosslyn might, but Todd seemed really convinced I was holy. She's said some things before- hinting that she knows. But I think she's the only one."

"How did she manage that?" I wonder, my frustration building back up.

"She probably knows him," Max interjects. "The Shepherds most likely have contact with each other, to talk about, like, community problems or whatever."

Not finding anything to disagree with there, I hurriedly turn the focus back on Mitchie, anxious to know if there's anyone else I need to kill. Well, I was already hunting for Rosslyn's head, but this definitely makes me more enthusiastic about it. "So what then?"

"Well..." She hesitates and my mind instantaneously jumps to the worst possible scenario.

"What did they do, Mitchie? Tell me what they did, and I'll-"

"Shh." Mitchie puts her finger to my lips and giggles. "You're cute when you're protective." I smile for a split-second before I realize that could be incredibly telling to Max. _Incredibly_ telling. As to the nature of our relationship. Shit. That's bad. This is-

"It's OK, Alex," he says quietly. "Remember how I said I inferred the rest? That's the rest."

I'm totally flabbergasted right now; how did my little brother get so smart? "You know? And you're not having a mental spasm?"

He shrugs awkwardly. "I'll admit... I didn't think I was right at first, because it was weird. But then- you're my sister, and you _are _weird." When he calls myself and Mitchie weird, it almost breaks my heart. "Then, though, you guys are happy. Happier than I've ever seen you, Alex. And I thought, well, what's wrong with that? If you think about it, it kind of makes more sense for girls to like girls and boys to like boys."

Mitchie cocks her head as though it's never occurred to her. To be honest, it hasn't occurred to me either. "How so?" she breathes.

"Well, boys know what boys like and what they need, and vice versa." He's on the verge of laughter now. Thank God. "Maybe you're just smarter than the rest of us, because that way makes so much more sense. But then again, Alex is that way, so-"

"Max!" But I'm laughing, too, in relief. If I did believe in God, I'd be thanking him for this moment. I don't, though, so I'll just have to take it for what it really is: me, my hands on Max's stomach as I tickle him mercilessly; Max, giggling like I've never seen him do before as he leans into Mitchie for protection; Mitchie, drawing Max in closer and halfheartedly swatting at me to get my hands off of him. I have never been anywhere, in any moment, with more smiles, with more radiance.

The moment ends all too soon, though. Mitchie manages to sneakily pull me off with a kiss, which momentarily leaves me powerless. She takes Max into her body and holds him like a mother would hold a child. I throw my hands up in defeat, trying to prolong the laughter as it dies on my lips. We all get our breathing back to normal and my unanswered question hangs ominously in the air. Mitchie glances between me and Max, trying to decide if it would be worth revealing to save whatever tiny grasps of innocence we still cling to.

"It's- the Shepherds, they were going to let me go. Because they decided God had told me not to reveal anything until they are worthy. So they were- going to talk about how to make themselves worthy. And then, and then your father... he said he wished his real daughter made him this proud." She takes a fast glance at me and then returns her eyes to her lap. I don't show any expression, though: for today, I am numb to my father's insults. Tomorrow, though, is another story. "And then the Shepherds decided that- that- oh, Alex..." She's practically in tears now; I think I can see them peeking out of the corners of her eyes and sliding down her dry cheeks.

In an unspoken sibling connection, Max and I get up to switch seats so that I can wrap her in my arms to offer what little comfort I can. "Just tell me, Mitchie... it's not your fault, whatever it is. You have no control over them or what they do or how they think-"

"They think they can get God's Word out of me by turning you into a perfect believer!" she blurts out and then goes back to crying. "Oh, Alex, I'm sorry. I'm s-so, so sorry. T-Tomorrow. They're going to ask the whole commune about it, about you. About what to d-do." For the briefest flash of a second, I entertain the thought that maybe without her this would be prevented. But then I remember I wouldn't really have much of a reason to care without her, either, and the thought vanishes as quickly as it came.

"What happens if they take you away tomorrow, Alex?" she sniffles. "Me... Max... we'd be nowhere." Max and I lock eyes as she finishes this sentence, and we know that for Mitchie's sake, we need to get on with this escape thing. There's no time to plan anymore, no time for silly games and stocking up on supplies. All the shit is coming to a head here, and when it all flies to hell, we can't be here to see it. I have a feeling that none of us would make it.


	14. Escape

**A/N: I am not pleased at all with the middle of this chapter. Also, I'm interested in what you think of Alex's, erm, "revelation."**

It's very hard for me to sleep tonight, even with Mitchie curled up and clutching at the fabric of my nightgown in the cutest way possible. Her soft breaths are usually enough to calm me, but not tonight. I'm guessing that's because of the memories this stirs up about my last escape attempt and how horribly it was botched. Every disgusting, terrifying, deadly scenario screams through my mind and clatters against my ears in a dissonant symphony that I desperately want to leave but can't.

Mitchie doesn't seem to be having the same problem as I do, but I think that's because she allows herself to believe in things that are way beyond her control. I've noticed that she tends to have a remarkable amount of faith for someone who has been through so much- faith in what, I don't know. I guess maybe that once she had all of that shit thrown at her all at once, the only way to stay alive was to keep hope alive. Or faith. Or whatever.

I kiss her on the forehead but do not get up. My feet are itching to visit the book room again, though I realize from my last attempt that it's best not to take any unnecessary risks. Last time, I was too young, too immature, too impulsive. The day before I was planning on leaving, I put on more horrible pranks than I ever had before. I managed to break six of the seven Cardinal Atrocities in that day alone. I ran from the whips and hid until nightfall, laughing like hell as the entire compound was out to find me. Then, after everyone had finished checking out our house, I snuck back in and hid in my room until it was time to go. Last time, I had tried to go out shouting my cause from the rooftops. Now, I know better. This time we will go with a whisper.

I sit up waiting for another hour or so before I feel myself drifting off to sleep from sheer exhaustion. However, that sleep is restless, pointless, and possibly more draining than staying awake. Nightmares invade every corner of every dream and take me into their painful grasp. I twist and turn until the sunlight peeks through the curtains' gap and shines in my eyes to bring me back to life.

Sunlight doesn't seem to phase Mitchie at all as she just continues on sleeping. I don't bother to wake her, seeing as we'll all need extra strength for tonight. I only wish I could've gotten some myself. Max is probably fine on the sleep front; I haven't heard any noise in the yet, meaning no one's up. Instead of wasting time, I figure I should start planning things out. I didn't really have much of a plan last time.

The big question was when? Would it be best to go in the awkward half hour between evening service and dinner, to just slip away into the twilight? I nix that idea quickly based on the fact that some asshole is going to be making me do shit during that time. Mitchie and I are probably going to be holed up somewhere all day because of last night's "revelations", leaving us no room for escape. The best time will probably be after lights out after the guards have finished their first pass. I think that's somewhere around 11, but I don't know for sure. We'll have to keep a watch out tonight for them. Max needs to sneak into our room before we go, too: there would be too much commotion if we tried to wake him on our way out.

As for provisions, it's a bit trickier. Stealing food from the kitchen is probably an unnecessary risk, though I don't know how else we'd eat. We could depend on help from the outside world despite the fact that we don't know much about them. Wait... the police. I remember learning something about the police, which are kind of like the Enforcers only not as mean. I heard that they help keep the bad guys away in the outside world. Maybe they'd be willing to help us, too. Come to think of it, Max probably knows a lot about the outside world from the books. Hopefully he'll have some advice.

But how far is it to the nearest police station? Especially since most of the outside world operates by cars, which would definitely be able to travel much further and faster than we would be able to by foot. They're towns are most likely going to be more separated than our little community. I don't know how long we'll able to walk. Maybe someone will pick us up? In the end, it probably doesn't matter, I decide. I'd rather die walking on some desolate road knowing that I tried the hardest to get out of here than stay in this wretched place my whole life, alive.

I glance over at the clock to find that it's just a little past 8. Brilliant. I need to get going to avoid getting my ass kicked any more than it usually is. Although I shouldn't put too much effort into being on time or that will look suspicious, too. Fuck it. I'm just going to act like it's a normal day, do everything as I would usually.

But of course my mind goes blank at this prospect. What would I do first? Wake up Mitchie. OK. That one I can do- with a smile.

I go over to her, gently shaking her body by the shoulders. "Mitchie... Mitchie... We've got to get ready. Get up."

She moans, rolling over so that I can see her face all scrunched up and upset about this whole morning thing, which is weird because usually I'm the not morning person. "What...?" If we didn't have to be at services in half an hour, I would have just let her be considering how cute she looks on that bed: her hair splayed out across the mattress, nightgown and sheets tangled up together, revealing her smooth, tanned legs-

Whoa. Calm down, Alex. As close as we've gotten, the focus has mostly been on the protector/proctectee and friendship relationships. Even our romantic relationship has been quite tame- well, not compared to the other idiots in this compound, but I suspect it becomes much more enhanced in the outside world. There hasn't been much time to feel longing or lust or anything incredibly... sexual, I guess is the best word. Honestly, I don't know how to feel that. I mean, I know it's a natural human feeling- why the hell else would they tell us we're going to have urges to have sex? Or why would anyone want to have sex, for that matter, if it wasn't fun, if it didn't feel good? I don't really know how good sex is, or how two girls have sex, or if it's even possible for two girls to have sex.

But I can't help but wonder about these things, considering how undeniably, um, _sexual_ I felt staring at Mitchie's legs. It made me feel like this... tingly feeling all over- especially, you know, _down south_. And judging by the heavy breathing I'm experiencing, I probably can't trust myself to control this around her. Not to the proper level for someone who's been raped, anyway. I'm sure most other people would be interested in that. But I promised myself that I would let her guide, that I would let her lead.

Once I snap out of my slightly disturbing thought fest, I realize that Mitchie's staring up at me with a smirk on her face. "You look adorable when you're thinking about something really hard."

"I, uh, yeah. I mean, I guess..." I trail off awkwardly. Dammit, Alex, get a handle on the situation! But she's sitting up straight now and her dress is all bunched up around her mid-thighs, and I can see so-

"What were you thinking about?" she asks.

I instantly jerk my eyes away from her legs, up to her face. "You're beautiful," I blurt out, and then turn completely red after I say it.

She seems to take this as a compliment, though, because she giggles and gets up, stepping closer to me as her dress slowly falls straight down. "I love you, Alex."

Feeling vaguely bold, I kiss her once. "I"- another kiss, just a little bit longer- "fucking"- a third, my arms moving to her waist and hers settling gently on my shoulders- "love"- this kiss a little deeper, her hands tangled in my hair and our bodies pressing tightly against each other- "you." I break the last kiss and lightly tap her nose, which she seems to enjoy as I'm rewarded with a hint of laughter. I don't trust myself to do anything more, what with my breathing already off the charts, so I just lean in and whisper into her ear, "We'd better get ready. Don't want to be late."

She looks slightly disappointed by this, but nods anyway and leaves my arms- not without stealing a kiss on the cheek first, of course. "Do you have a plan for tonight?"

"I think so," I reply. Quickly, I turn my back to face the wall because she's about to take her dress off and if I see that, well, who knows what might happen? I try not to look at her as I continue to change. "We're probably going to be cooped up somewhere all day, so I figure we go after lights out, when we see the guards pass by. Max should be in here before we leave, though, so we can all go as a group. And once we get out- well, they have these people called police in the outside world."

She nods. "I remember hearing about them. And I bet Max knows some more about that, from the books."

"Exactly my thoughts. But for the moment I'm just scared of what might happen," I say, hardly daring to let the words leave my lips. I feel so much weakness in saying them, like I'm letting Mitchie down with that sentence. "Of what might happen to you, of course," I amend quickly. "And Max. I mean-"

"Alex." She's gotten into quite the habit of stopping me whenever I go into a bit of a rant. "It's OK; with me, you don't have to be brave or strong or anything but who you are. With me, you're safe."

I don't really know what to say that won't sound incredibly cliched, so I resort to our old body language: smile, soft touch, gentle squeeze. She understands. She always understands. Thank God she always understands, or I'd be totally fucked.

And with that, we go out to the door, ready to face the day.

"People of Havenwood, we have wondrous news!" Rosslyn announces from the altar of the High Chapel. Her smile is beaming down upon us, but it is so sadistic I can't believe no one else sees this. "Our holiest and newest member has finally spoken!" It takes a moment for this to sink in, but once it does... well. The best way I can describe it is the utter jubilation that would occur if we'd been in the midst of a terrible drought and Mitchie had just discovered a giant lake. Or my jubilation upon discovering Rosslyn's death. Multiply that by about 600 and you've got what the High Chapel looks like about now. Except for Rosslyn, stoic as ever. It chills me to stare into her icy eyes, to see that glare pierce through me like a whip to my back.

After enjoying the power she possesses for a couple of moments, Rosslyn settles us all down in a very disturbing voice. "While we are proud of her for taking this first step, we have also realized that we as a community are not ready to hear God's Word yet." Hushed and worried whispers erupt in every corner of the church, spreading back towards the center until the whole place is caught in a quiet conversation. "We are not worthy," Rosslyn continues, which causes another sweeping silence. "We now understand that _everyone_ must be a believer in order for us to hear the Word, _everyone_ must accept God into our hearts. Yes, we believe that once Alexandra Russo has accepted God as her savior, we will hear his Word!" Her last words ring out as echoes, but no one cheers this time. They're all too busy, staring at me. Everyone knows me; I've been called out as a bad example too many times for everyone to not know my name.

"Alexandra, if you would join me?" She extends her hand, like she's trying to be my friend. Well, fuck that.

I stand up as bravely as I possibly can, trying not to let the anger, the fear, the rage make my voice quiver as I spit at her: "Make me." A significantly large gasp resounds through the audience at this point, and I try to stay on my own two feet as Rosslyn's eyes bore into mine.

Suddenly, it's like she forgets the entire congregation is there and it's just a battle of wills between me and her. "That can be arranged. Damien!" My favorite Enforcer stands up and marches his way over to me. I know that there is no escape now as he grabs my arm with a big, beefy hand, marching me up to the executioner. At least, that's what it feels like.

"What are you going to do to me now, Rosslyn? Prove your devotion to God by beating the devil out of me? Yeah, I'm sure that's what Jesus wants," I tell her defiantly. I already know that I'm in for the beating of my life- I'm not even sure I'll come out of it alive or at least fully functioning. I might as well have some fun with it.

"To the Shepherds' chamber with you, young lady! The rest of you, off to breakfast!" I can see the angry fire dancing in her eyes and I know that it's taking everything in her not to reach out and strike me across the face right then and there. I try to remain calm, but it's the most fucking difficult thing I have ever done in my life.

"Ready to beat me senseless, Rosslyn?"

Her smile worries me. "Oh, no. We have something much worse."

What could possibly be-

FUCK. I am tied to a chair, ropes cutting into my wrists and leaving red marks everywhere, the hard wood pressing tough into my back. The room swelters as my sweat mingles with the solitary tears I allow to drip down my face.

Voices ring out around me, faces covered in masks stare down at me with empty eyes. I can't tell who is around me, pelting me with Bible verses as they all laugh. Lightly, they smack at me, teasing, taunting. I scream as loud as I can to try and block out their voices but soon enough someone gags me and I can hardly breath. More verses invade my ears and a high pitched noise sounds far off, but close enough for me to hear. It's driving me crazy, I can hardly stand this shit, these noises, these verses, these hands, these stings, and then-

I am alone in the chair, my head pounding and my whole body very confused. I hear voices.

"This is not the way it should be!" I recognize Todd, yelling, upset. "We cannot teach her to put God in her heart; she must accept Him herself!"

"At the rate she's going, she'll never get there!" That's Rosslyn right there. I can tell by the shrillness in her voice.

"Then maybe we are not meant to hear God's Word!"

"How is this any different than the Enforcers?" Rosslyn screams, seemingly reverting to something they've already discussed.

"They teach! They teach the difference between right and wrong, not how to accept God! That is an individual battle!" I'm not sure if his logic makes that much sense, but at least he's on my side.

"Fine! You want to be the Shepherd who deprived us of God's Word? Go ahead!"

There's a silence before Todd's next words are spoken. "What if we just... let her go home tonight and then put it to a vote tomorrow? Let the Mother and Father decide?"

Even Rosslyn knows she's not as powerful as the Mother and Father, no matter how much she wants to be. "If I must," she says bitterly in defeat.

And then they come get me. I barely remember walking back to the house.

"Alex! It's almost time!" Mitchie sends an excited whisper to me as she scoops me into her arms in a hug. I feel her happiness turn to concern when she sees the state of me. "Are you alright? Can you go?"

I nod. "I'm fine." My voice is a little scratchy, I notice. And my wrists are starting to hurt like hell due to the bloody red skin there rubbed raw by the rope. "My legs work just fine- I just need a moment."

My moment is interrupted by a charging Max, throwing himself full-force into me. "I thought you weren't going to be here. I thought we were going to leave you behind."

I let myself hug him back, not recognizing the different sort of warmth that spreads through my body as I hold him, trying to protect him from whatever's out there. "You can't get rid of me that easily, Maxie. No chance in hell."

"They've passed." Mitchie's voice crackles with fear and excitement as she turns her determined eyes toward us. "It's time."

We let the peaceful air around our house settle for another ten minutes or so before venturing out the door. Quiet as possible, we sneak through the house, past the landing, down the stairs, into the empty kitchen, out the slightly creaking door. My heart pounds in my chest and I _am_ scared to death about this entire thing. I don't know how to keep myself quiet; it feels like the entire world can hear my heartbeat, that it's a dead giveaway to our position.

No one speaks as we slide along the walls of the house, towards the cellar, nearing the woods where there's no moonlight. We understand that to finish this successfully we'll have to draw on deeply personal stores of strength that none of the others can understand. For me, books and corsages keep flashing through my mind, Max and Mitchie's faces forming a faint backdrop. It is what I need to lead us closer to the woods. All of a sudden, I hear shouts.

"Someone! Help! Stop them!" Shit. It's _Justin_. He's figured out we're escaping, and he's telling the Enforcers! What the fuck!

"Go!" I say urgently, quietly. We speed off into the forest and suddenly I am fourteen years old again, running, scrambling-

NO! The stronger part of my brain fights off the urge to remember that time, because now is not the time. I _can't_ be sucked in, I can't, I can't, I can't- I _won't._ But in order to keep my brain strong, my body sacrifices flowing ribbons of tears as a compromise.

Footsteps echo behind me, but I don't really hear them. Almost nothing is real anymore, nothing but the trees and sounds in front of me. I find it difficult to extend my mind to the others, to focus on anything but the fence that I know is at the end of this dark forest, the freedom that I will soon find. It has to be there.

And then- CRACK! The noise stops all three of us in our tracks. Mitchie looks absolutely horrified and confused by it, but Max and I turn chalk white at the sound. I have only heard it once before, only seen the instrument once before, but I know exactly what it is: a gun. I have only seen it used to shoot a rabid fox that once got into the compound. It fell dead on impact.

Unfortunately, that pause is what the Enforcers need to catch up to us. I find Damien's face, basking in the moonlight, aiming directly at the three of us. Barely having time to react, Mitchie lunges to the left while I grab Max and dodge right. I hear the noise, shut my eyes, expecting to feel the pain of a thousand needles stabbing me. But I feel nothing. Nothing at all. Except... a wetness? On my hand?

In the glow of the silver moon, I see my hand stained red with the blood of a twelve-year-old boy.

In the glow of the silver moon, I see my brother slumped over, barely breathing and hardly moving.

"Alex!"

We run and jump and fight and clamber, but I am numb.

We reach the fence I've dreamed about for years and climb over it to find a road.

We reach the outside world, but I am numb.


	15. Blood

I can't see through the wall of tears gliding across my slick skin. I can't hear much over Max's grunts and yelps of pain from the wound ravaging his back and soaking his shirt. The rain is starting its slow and cold drizzle, but I can't be bothered. I am numb.

Because there's no other option, Mitchie takes the lead. She holds onto my hand and practically drags my useless body along the side of the road while I pull Maxie behind me. My baby brother... all of a sudden, so empty and so pained. I see agony etched on every corner of his tiny face and shivering through every bone in his body. He is so young- only his four-year-old face stares back at me now, returning me to his feverish days. I couldn't protect him then, but somehow he got through it. Maybe now he has a better chance- I don't know. I hope so.

The road is silent and the drizzle continues to pick up speed and soak through our clothing, the chill making me feel as though the dress is solid rock that I have to make an effort to keep above the ground. All of my focus is on Max right now, but Mitchie's worrying eyes tell me that she doesn't think we're ever going to find the police that we need. We could be going in the complete opposite direction for all either of us knows.

But then, from the other direction, lights cut through the deep darkness and curtain of heavy rain. Another noise pops up, dwarfing that of the heavy rain. Having only seen the picture in some schoolbooks and then being subsequently told the devil's magic runs them, I can only guess as to the identity of this. I'm pretty sure it's a car.

Mitchie must either be going crazy or not really understand what a car is, because all of a sudden, she jumps out into the wet road, directly in front of the car's path. "Mitchie, no!" My voice is high-pitched, squeaky, hysterical. I already have my brother's blood on my hands; I don't need to add my best friend's.

Her plan, amazingly, works. The car screeches to a halt with the sound squealing brakes and a wall of water flying up from the bottom, displaced by its massive being. The cars in the books were never this big.

Whoever's in there turns off the rumbling noise and leaves the blinding lights on as I stumble into the road with Max. I can feel his last reserves of strength slipping with each step I take, his body slowly giving up while it starts to slide along the road. I feel an intense need to collapse, to give up right here, but a voice inside me reminds me that I didn't go through all of this just to give up. _Max_ didn't go through all of this just to have me give up.

A tall woman, maybe in her mid-30's, jumps out of the car with the spryness of a toddler. Her body looks haggard and her face slightly sunken and I can't believe she's even standing up right now. But once again, her eyes give it away, and I can see she's concerned about us. "Are you kids alright?" Her voice has a sort of twang to it, something I've never heard before. Both Mitchie and I are taken aback by it for a second until Mitchie gains the composure to answer. I don't have any composure left; I'm pretty much a useless lump right now.

"N-no. We need... help." Because of the rain, it is only now, as I hear her shaking voice, that I realize Mitchie has been crying the entire time.

The woman steps closer to us, her frame illuminated in the almost surreal glow of the car's lights. "Are you- Oh my goodness!" She spots Max, covered in red, barely able to hold on to me anymore. "What happened to you kids? Get in, get in." She ushers us into the car: me and Max in the back seat, Mitchie up front next to the woman. I don't know how to react as the car starts to move, nor what it means when the woman says, "Buckle up." I don't react, just hold Max in my lap and try not to look at his horribly pained expression. I run my fingers through his hair, grasp his hand, clutch at him like I can someone siphon my healthiness, my life, into him.

"We- oh God!" Mitchie tries to explain, but Max gives a particularly loud groan as we ride over a very large bump in the road. He's sobbing uncontrollably now, not being able to keep up the facade any longer. "Max..."

"What happened to him, huh? I'm taking y'all to a hospital now, so don' worry. We'll be there soon." The woman manages to remain ridiculously calm in this situation, even going so far as to put a hand on Mitchie's shoulder in a comforting way. Mitchie winces but does not pull away, probably out of respect to the woman. There's no way she could possibly know the depth of everything that Mitchie's been through, what we've all been through.

"He was shot..." Mitchie lets out a tiny sob.

"Shot! Where?" I feel the car accelerate, watch the outside world speed by in blurs of shapes and I know that we're not going at safe speeds anymore. But that's OK. Because it's fast. And fast is what's going to save Max.

"B-b-back, somewhere. I don't know! Don't ask me these fucking questions! You don't know a goddamned thing!" I explode at the woman, wanting to blame her for all events that are beyond her control. And then, just after I say that, I break into more tears, apologizing profusely for what I've just said. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." I can say no more as it takes my entire being to keep myself breathing through the profuse, hacking, wracking sobs coursing through my body.

"Don't worry about it, sweetie," the woman says in the most soothing voice possible. "Where you kids from?"

"Havenwood." Mitchie spits the name out like a poison.

"Is that the religious place?" she asks, livid. "I ain't from around here, but my sister told me about it. In the woods somewhere?"

"That's the one."

The woman mutters something under her breath that sounds like a curse word, but I can't hear it properly. It's hard for me to hear anything over my sobs. "Don't worry. We'll get there in time."

We speed through the night, finally arriving at a hospital. It's so large. For a moment, I forget about everything and just stare at the sheer enormity of this building. Never have I seen anything so gigantic before; so many white blocks, all connected and jumbled together to form this one giant clump. It almost hurts my neck to stare at these rain-soaked buildings with my teary eyes.

"Alex. It's time to go." I feel Mitchie's hand close over my wrist, tugging me, urging me to go with her. I'm vaguely aware of the weight of Max's body being lifted off me, the fullness of his blood soaking into my dress. It's red. I don't remember what color it used to be, I have no idea. That thought makes me start heaving dry sobs, for I have no tears left.

With Mitchie's help I make it out of the car in time to watch a couple of men wheel Max into two doors that open by themselves. "Where are they taking him! Where are they taking my brother!"

Mitchie brings her in to me, arm around my shoulders, but has no response. The woman knows, though. "They're taking him into surgery."

"Oh my God!" I visibly back up, cup my hand over my mouth, ready to murder whoever was going to put him into surgery. "They're going to cut him up! Into pieces! Those motherfuckers!" I break free from Mitchie's hold, ready to bust into that place and save my brother.

But the woman grabs me tightly, yelling for someone to help her against my thrashing. "Honey, they aren't going to hurt him. Surgery fixes people. They're going to fix him." Slowly, I understand that these people are trying to help Max. I find it so much easier to trust what they say, to take it on blind faith, than I ever found with the people at the compound. This trust is possibly from the sheer fact that these people are not from the compound.

I am calmer now, ready to be released and go back into Mitchie. "C'mon," the woman says. "We should go in."

Mitchie and I both cower in fear as the woman crosses through the doors that open by themselves, not sure what to make of that. It's so weird. "It's OK; they won't hurt you." After watching another hospital worker pass through unharmed, Mitchie and I cautiously step into an environment that I can only describe as sterile. There's no personality to the place, but what strikes me as very odd is the lack of religious paraphernalia. I realize that the outside world is mostly secular, but I've never been in a room that doesn't have at least a cross hanging from the wall. It's weirdly comforting.

"Hello? Can you tell us where they just took a young boy- maybe twelve or thirteen?" the woman asks the receptionist.

"Of course. They took him down the hall to the left there. Operating room 52, I believe." I am vividly reminded of the receptionist back at Havenwood, and of how different their demeanors are.

"Thank you. And..." She hesitates, looking at me and Mitchie. "If I could get a doctor, to check these two girls out?"

The receptionist stares at us quizzically, as if she's just noticed us- and our sorry state: the blood over my clothes, the rain all over us, the rips in both our dresses. "Are you their mother?"

"Not exactly... I found them on the side of the road. They're from that compound- Havenwood, right?" Mitchie and I both nod vigorously. We're standing close to each other, shoulders bumping shoulders, hands holding hands.

The receptionist seems kind of conflicted about this. "Well... how old are you girls?"

"Sixteen," I reply, looking at the floor.

"Me, too," comes from Mitchie's mouth.

"Are either of you related to the boy?" the receptionist asks.

"He's my younger brother." I'm not sure what's going on here. Why can't she just treat us?

"And how old is he?"

"Thirteen... in three days." It shocks me that Max's birthday is so soon. Thirteen... he's getting so big.

"Well, I can allow you girls to see a doctor, though I can't promise he'll be allowed to treat you," the receptionist tells us.

"And why the fuck not?" I'm tired of being in the dark. "Listen... not to be rude, but I don't give a shit about seeing a doctor right now! I want to see my brother!" Thankfully, I start cry again so that they don't think I'm an evil, heartless bitch.

"Your brother's surgery will take a while. If takes long, that's good; it means they've found something they can fix. For now, you should be concerned about helping yourself. We have a doctor who can help you."

I fight every urge in my body to retaliate, to hit her, to do _something_. I feel so fucking useless right now and it's tearing me apart. Mitchie squeezes my hand a little tighter, a little harder, a little better. "Fine," I grumble.

The receptionist turns to look at something I can only guess is a computer and inputs a couple of words. "What is your brother's name?"

"Maximilian James Russo," I say without much hope. I think that only the adopted kids are registered anywhere.

She scans through the things on the screen and then looks at me. "There appears to be no record of him."

"He's never been outside the compound," I tell her with a shrug. "I doubt we're in there, either."

"Name?"

"Alexandra Margarita Russo." Again, the receptionist's search turns up empty.

She looks at Mitchie next. "And you?"

"Mitchie Marie Torres." Nothing.

The receptionist sighs. "Well, I suppose I'll have to let you see him and he'll get... whatever information you can. Ah, Dr. Marx."

Dr. Marx is tall and muscular and very kind-looking, but abashedly, the first thing I notice is that he's black. Strange and horrible as that may sound, everyone in the compound is white as snow, save for the few Hispanics we have mixed in. I've never seen a black man in person, just in the history books. Once again, this unfamiliar sight brings a certain comfort to me. "Hello, Thelma. And who might you girls be?"

"Mitchie and Alexandra, escaped from Havenwood compound," Thelma replies.

Dr. Marx's eyes bulge wide. "Escaped? Thank God for you girls; maybe now we finally have the kind of evidence we need to shut that place down."

"Not now, doctor," Thelma cautions. "These girls need some help."

"And who are you?" Dr. Marx notices the woman who saved us for the first time.

The woman sticks her hand out to shake. "I'm Margaret. I found them on the side of the road and picked them up. Her little brother is in surgery right now."

Dr. Marx stares down at me, the warmth in his eyes backing up his words. "I am truly sorry to hear that. Why don't you come answer some questions, help me out?"

Numbly, we follow Dr. Marx down the hall, Mitchie's hand never leaving mine. We enter a small room with only a couple of very comfortable looking chairs in it. Dr. Marx moves them around so that two of them sit facing one, the others pushed against the wall. He sits in the one, clearly silently asking Mitchie and I sit. We do so, but I'm not focused on the conversation. Flashes of Max keep coming into my head: cutting on him, hurting him, blood pouring out of his back-

I'm crying again. I can't speak, there's no point in telling this man anything. I should be with my brother, I should _know_.

"I'll start with you- Mitchie, is it?" I hear Dr. Marx's voice, but it's almost like it's being played far away in a tinny sort of way.

She nods. I can only tell that by the slight movements to her upper body considering how I'm staring at a blank spot on the wall behind Dr. Marx.

"We're trying to get some background medical knowledge on you, just to make sure that there's nothing really wrong- no infections, no viruses, anything like that. So. What's your history, Mitchie? Is there anything really important we should know medically?"

She shifts uncomfortably in her chair, and I gather enough strength to look up into her eyes. "Tell him. He just wants to help." I put my other hand gently on her leg, hoping to give whatever little comfort I can to her.

A deep breath comes from deep in her chest; I can feel her entire body move as this happens. "A little over a year ago, I was raped. By a man named Rodney. In Washington."

"Washington state?" Dr. Marx asks, his features remaining completely calm.

She nods. "What were you doing in Washington?" he questions.

"There's a sister compound in Washington, called Cascadia. It's where I grew up," she tells him. Dr. Marx writes this all down on his clipboard,

"And you?" He's now focused on me, but I'm not sure I can answer this. I'm not- not now.

"Do you mind if I answer for her?" I hear Mitchie say. Thank God for her. I love her to fucking pieces.

Dr. Marx nods, trying to keep his eyes off my sobbing face. I kind of want to throttle him right now. I don't know why; it just seems like the thing to do. "Please."

Mitchie breathes deeply once again. It strikes me as kind of important that this is the first time an outsider is going to gain any insight into the workings of this horrendous community. "We seven rules that cannot be broken under any circumstances. If they are broken, the person who broke them gets seven lashes plus one lash for each year old they are. Alex has been receiving this at least bimonthly she was a small child."

"Dear God..." I cannot look at him; he's being too sympathetic and it bothers me. I can't stand this room, I need to be out, I need to be-

"Dr. Marx?" Someone knocks and opens the door, just peeking his head in. He's dressed in some strange blue plastic-looking outfit which is covered with blood.

"Yes, Raul?" Dr. Marx sets his clipboard down on his lap, fear in his eyes.

Raul steps in. He's having a difficult time meeting myself and Mitchie in the eyes. "I'm afraid that we couldn't save your brother-"

I hear nothing more. His mouth moves, going in and out of focus, but I hear no sounds. The room swirls around me, colors blending, swirling hurting my eyes to look at them. Shut. My eyes. Shut. Can't look at anything anymore. Mitchie's hand on my shoulder; it does nothing. Because this is all my fault.

It's all my fault.

Well fuck this! I race out of there, knocking my chair down in the process. This useless fucking place! Where the fuck is my brother, what the hell is their problem! Forget them- _they_ tried all the shit they could to save his life, but I sure as hell didn't. Not even close.

I weave a maze through the corridors, screaming and crying inside the empty hospital. Moonlight shines through the giant windows and onto my face, illuminating only half of it as it casts a giant shadow on the wall. The shadow is so big, it feels like it might over take me, so I keep running like hell. I shouldn't be able to run like this, shouldn't be able to have this kind of speed, this pain in my chest, this pain everywhere! Max should have it, have everything I have because he deserves it because _I killed him_! I don't deserve to keep living, I don't deserve all these opportunities I know have, I don't deserve Mitchie!

Somehow I stumble into a bathroom and see all that tile as the perfect opportunity to punish myself for all the torture I've put my best friend through, and the death of my brother that I caused. Furious, I smash my head against the wall, reveling in the pain it brings me. I do it again and again and again until I get the familiar woozy feeling and stop. I can't punish myself if I'm passed out cold on the bathroom floor.

I turn my attention to the mirrors above the sink and begin to pummel them, aiming at my face. I feel the blow of every punch vibrate through my arms, flowing to every part of my disgusting, worthless body. My knuckles start to bruise, but I keep going. There should be no stopping me now- not until the mirror itself cracks into a thousand tiny fragments that become lodged in my hands, my arms, a couple of shards flying out to slash my legs and torso.

But this is not enough.

Frantically, I fall to the floor, cutting myself on all the pieces too small for my eyes to pick up as I search for a big one. A big, sharp one. A triangular piece catches my eye and I snatch it up in terrific motion. Slowly, cautiously, I stand back up, staring at its glory. A perfect instrument to tarnish this body I don't deserve, to hurt the soul that is so horrible.

I lower it to my wrist, tapping the skin there, slowly piercing it, slowly feeling the blood pour out. It hurts like fuck, but it is what I deserve; it is-

"Alex Russo! Put that down now or so help me, I will rip it from your hands!" Mitchie stands at the door to the bathroom, hand on her hips, angrier than I have ever seen her. Chocolate brown eyes bore into my own, a mixture of a livid glare and the concern fright that can only be mustered by someone who loves me very much.

Suddenly, the colors come back into the world, sounds return to their normal clarity, and everything snaps into focus. I almost forget what I have done in the past few minutes, but the small trickle of blood running my face, my destroyed knuckles, my butchered wrist; all are clues to my disgusting activities.

I try to talk to her, try to make her understand, try to do _anything_, but all I can do is make vowel sounds. Not caring what I step on, I race across the bathroom and launch myself into her arms. She bumps against the door, inhales deeply, all from the sheer surprise of my actions. But she allows my head to nestle into her neck, to let my blood cover her dress as we both slide into an awkwardly comforting, crumpled heap on the ground.

"I love you."

**A/N: OK, so this is going to be a longer than normal author's note. I have no idea how many of you are too pissed at me to read this, but I'm sure there's a few. Fun fact: "Maximilian" is the name of a 3rd century saint and martyr. I like to think that this where our Max gets his namesake. I had three reasons for killing him: Alex's character development, to show the utter depths these people could sink to, and because it serves someone else's character very far in the future. I feel like he became rounded out as a character and completed his journey. As to the rest of the story, it is far from over. The first half is coming to a close, but I have more planned. I feel as though most people when dealing with refugee/escapee stories end with a joyous entry into society, but I want to portray the confusing adjustment Alex and Mitchie will go through as they assimilate into normal American culture. Plus, there's the whole business of getting these people's asses in jail where they belong. **

**So basically, I've got the roller coaster ready and waiting if you want to come along for the ride.  
**


	16. Clothes

The rest of the night means next to nothing to me. They patch up my wrist, my head, my knuckles. They drag me to the room where Max died and I have to listen to the doctor tell me why they couldn't save him. I don't listen; their words don't mean anything, I can't understand any of their terminology. I've moved beyond the anger phase; now, I just don't feel anything. Mitchie's trying to prod me along, get me to respond to something- anything- but I can't find it in myself to do much more than stare blankly ahead, one phrase consistently running through my brain: _It's all my fault, it's all my fault_.

We are shuffled from doctor to doctor, all in the name of keeping us healthy. One of them looks at my back, at the scars, and checks for infection. She sounds impressed that I haven't managed to contract any; I tell her about the cream and she tells me I'm resourceful. I don't give a shit. Then she does the same to Mitchie, who is also OK. She sends Mitchie to another doctor, while I am held back to answer a couple of questions from a guy know as the coroner.

"I'm going to do an autopsy on your little brother. Do you know what that means?" The coroner's voice is much higher pitched than Dr. Marx's, much more playful than it is comforting. I resist the urge to smack him. It's much harder, without Mitchie here.

I just shake my head at his statement; why the fuck would he think I know anything about this kind of stuff?

"Well, we do a couple of tests on his body, to find out the cause of death-"

"We know the fucking cause of death! He was shot!" I can't believe how much of an idiot this guy is being.

The coroner nods. "Yes, but the law requires us to do one anyway. Also, we're interested in looking for any suspicious bruises or cuts that are consistent with any type of abuse he received."

Way to break my heart, thinking about all the shit Max went through and how he never got to enjoy the rewards. "J-Just a few days ago... my father- grabbed us by the collars, threw us to the ground. Maybe something's there?"

He puts a hand on my shoulder and for once I find myself not shying away. "Of course. We'll check for that. But perhaps you don't want to stick around for the autopsy- why don't you run along back to the waiting room? I'm sure your friend will be done soon."

I nod, once again reverting to my confused state. I still don't know how to feel about this so I choose not to feel anything. The walk back to the waiting room could have taken me a millennium or a millisecond. Time has no bearing on me now, really. It's not measured by seconds or minutes or hours, nor by distance traveled. No, for me, time is now measured in words and speech. Everything else may be happening at any tempo, fast or slow, but I can tell how long the words go on for. It seems like they are all that is real anymore- though I'm sure that if I had physically seen Max die, images would be the things that are real.

"Alexandra?" It's the receptionist, trying to get through to me.

"Alex." Just numb words, meant to fill time, meant to fill space. I have to correct her- always have to make sure people get my name right, because no one ever does.

Silence. Clicking. I think it's her heels, tapping against the cold tiles. "Your friend Mitchie wants to see you."

"OK." This conversation I can measure, I can tell that it's short and I'll probably forget it by the time the next conversation rolls around. "Where is she?"

"I'll have someone show you there." She calls in a guard hanging around, eating, and whispers the directions to her. The guard makes no attempts to talk to me the entire trip there, though honestly we could have only been walking for a few seconds. I don't know. I just don't know anymore.

We're in a room with lots of cabinets, lots of machines, and a single bed in the middle. Mitchie's lying on it, looking rather dazed. Instead of my usual heart-clenching anger, I am swamped with an utter depression, the likes of which I've never known before. The closest I can describe it is the time I tried to kill myself by stuffing dirt in my mouth- suffocation, choking, coughing, vomiting. The depression swallows me up like that now, fistfuls of dirt once again being forced down my throat by my own hand. But that is no longer what I want.

"She's fine. She's waking up." A doctor's voice; a female. Time ticks on. "We gave her some medicine to make her go to sleep, so we could do some gynecological tests without it upsetting her."

"What's that? Gynecological?" I look at Mitchie's confused eyes, her smiling face. I don't understand.

"It's to see if the rape harmed any of her internal body systems." Her too clinical voice tells me I'm getting the watered down, little kiddie version of this story. But that's fine for now, I guess. I'm not sure if I could handle a real explanation.

"And did it?"

"Only two of them come back this quickly- and she tested negative for both. We're hopeful the other results will come back with the same."

"How long will that take?"

"A couple of days."

A couple of days came and went, and Mitchie got out of the hospital just fine. Margaret has been taking care of us like we're her daughters, putting us up in a hotel room and giving us food. We haven't had a chance to get clothes yet, but today is the day, it would seem. I feel horrible getting so much for her at no cost, but she says not to worry about it. Apparently, her racist, sexist, homophobic (whatever _that_ means) grandfather just died and left her a big chunk of money. She laughs and says she can't think of a better way to honor his memory than by helping us out. Then she always winks, which I'm not sure what that means, either. She also says that we gave her inspiration to chase the dream she's been putting off for years in hopes of finding a husband. I am still shocked that I have the power to affect someone that profoundly.

We're finally free of that horrible hospital, and I hope as hard as I can that I never have to set foot in one again until the day I die. I don't know if I'll be able the memories before that day comes. Mitchie and I have been in the same clothes since our escape four days ago, neither of us have spoken much. We haven't done much of anything but sit together, huddled on the bed in the hotel room while Margaret tries to explain "simple" machines to us, like the TV and the computer and cars. Every time I start to feel less depressed, some random tic sets me off and I fall straight back to the bottom again. It's a good thing Mitchie's here, or I would've run away by now and probably end up dead in some gutter. According to Margaret, that's an expression they have here. There is so much to learn, it's overwhelming.

"Here's one of the finest establishments in this world. Well, it ain't all that fine, but it's cheap and good," Margaret tells us as we pull up into the parking lot of a store that seems almost as big as the hospital. It has the word "Target" written over it in big red letters.

"What's it the target of?" I ask, only to be greeted by Margaret's laughter. I like the bit of extra twang in her laugh that gives it something special, something different than I've ever heard. She says that it's just because she's from the South, but I think it's because she's Margaret.

"Nothin'. That's just the name of the company. They make everything you'll ever need- which is why you girls have to get moving! We've got lots of shopping to do!" Margaret is positively giddy at this prospect, while Mitchie and I aren't sure how to react. "Aw, c'mon; y'all are girls!"

Mitchie looks at me a giggles a little bit behind her hand at how overtly unfeminine I am. I want to slap her, but her giggles look so damn cute that I can't bring myself to stop them. "Actually," I say, since she's not talking, "we've never been shopping. For anything. At Havenwood, everything was just, you know, there."

"Well, 'round here, girls go out shopping for fun. Tryin' on different clothes some weird ones, just to make ya look silly," Margaret explains.

This seems to appeal to Mitchie as she stops giggling and focuses on our new guardian. "That doesn't sound awful."

I shrug. "I didn't realize that this was a recreational activity. Maybe I could have some fun."

"It's OK, darlin'. You don't seem the type to be int'rested in this sort of thing anyhow," Margaret says as she exits the car.

This kind of puts me out, even though I can see it greatly entertains Mitchie. "What do you mean?"

"She means you're not much of a _girl_, Alex," Mitchie says with a giggle. So damn cute.

"Here, it's called a tomboy, when a girl don't like to do girly stuff," Margaret explains. She then waves to a man dressed in a button-down shirt with rolled up sleeves and these sort of tan colored pants. His smile gives away how eager he is to meet us, how much this means to him. Maybe Margaret's boyfriend? Brother? Cousin? I don't know.

She greets him with a firm handshake, which probably means that they aren't that close. As though she becomes suddenly scared, Mitchie grips my hand with her own, probably cutting off bits of circulation. It's OK, though. I assume that this new man kind of resembles Rodney, or someone else walking by does. And then, from the bottommost depths of my heart, a thought pushes its way out that Max is in the crowd today, and all I have to do to get him back is snatch him up once I spot him. But the high wave of hope is followed by an even more crushing depression. Suddenly shopping sounds like an inane waste of time, something totally pointless in the grand scheme of things and I want no part in it.

Every- single- nerve in my body shrieks in the agony of coming so close to finding my brother again and it takes all of my willpower (plus of some of Mitchie's) to concentrate on what this new man is saying to keep my mind off this torture, to keep my fists from flying, to keep my tears from falling.

The man doesn't offer his hand to us, probably guessing by our body language that we couldn't be more confused if we tried. "Hello, my name is Tom. I work with Child Protective Services. What we do is, we take children who have been abused by their parents or guardians or for some reason do not feel safe at home and we give them a new place to live where they don't have to be scared anymore.

… _Where they don't have to be scared anymore_. What an alien feeling it would be, to feel safe. A day has never gone by when I haven't been afraid for someone or something. He's promising peace, which I've never known. I'm almost terrified to experience it, ironically. What if it doesn't live up to my expectations? I don't know if I would be able to handle that.

"We're going to get some clothes right now. Tonight, the police we'll be raiding your compound and rounding up all the people you listed at the hospital." Tom's smile is large and genuine, making me feel as though something horrible could really happen to Rosslyn, my parents, Damien... everyone. I turn to tell this to Max, who by all means should be standing next to me, but he's not. Once again, I can barely keep myself from collapsing. I don't even try to stop the steady stream of silent tears that fall from my eyes now. No one else acknowledges my breakdown, which I take as a sign of respect.

Target can be most accurately as a wonderland. Never have I seen so much clothing- so different- all in one place. And everything else! These things called watches and all the computers and TV's Margaret mentioned. And! They have games that you can play on the computers and you push the buttons and it makes the characters move. It's like magic. Somehow, walking into that store lifts the weight off my shoulders and I feel giddy- like I'm experiencing the childhood I never had.

I try to let all thoughts of Max flow from my mind as though in my head, I am talking to him. I am telling him what's going on, telling him how much I wish he were here. And then there's all the energy I'm focusing on Mitchie: even with days of wear and tear on her dress, the way it spins around with her as she hurries through the aisles with a twinkling laugh is so much like magic.

And pants! My God. Never have I felt more liberated than while wearing those pants. They feel so much more natural to me, so much better than that horrible dress ever felt. Margaret tells me that I should check out the boys' section, but I stubbornly refuse, as though there's an invisible line barring me from entering. Though once I get over my fears, I realize that Margaret was right about boys' clothes; they are nice. I eventually settle on a mixture of things: some masculine, some feminine, some neutral. Margaret even lets me get a fedora, which is a very nice hat that I mostly decided on because after I put it on and went to look in the mirror, Mitchie sneaked up behind me and whispered in my ear, "I like that on you." I shivered and was very much sold on the idea of a fedora.

After the shopping ends, we part ways with Tom, who promises to keep us informed about any developments in the case against Havenwood. I can't wait for those bastards to get what they deserve- I am so fucking excited for that day.

"So how did you girls like shopping?" Margaret asks on the way back to the hotel.

"I thought it was a really fun way to spend the afternoon," Mitchie says, clearly enthused about the things she's bought. I am, too; they look very, _very_ good on her.

"It was kind of neat to see the whole store with all this, you know, stuff," I admit.

Margaret can't hold in a great belly laugh. "One day, I'm gonna take you to Wal-Mart, Alex. It's gonna blow your socks off."

I wrinkle my nose in confusion. "What's Wal-Mart?"

"It's like Target, only tackier," Margaret laughs.

Back at the hotel, Margaret orders something called pizza for us. Mitchie is totally afraid of it at first, refusing to come close. I take a huge bite out of it, and it's certainly a hell of a lot better than most of the food at Havenwood. That isn't much of a surprise, though. Most everything about this world is better than Havenwood. Except for Max...

I can no longer hold in the sudden wails that erupt all over the pizza, all over dinner, and all over Mitchie as she swoops in to hold me tight. I can hear Margaret shuffling in her seat, trying not to bear witness to this intimate scene.

"Enjoy it, Alex; tell him about the pizza. Tell Max how good it is," she mutters into my ear, sending chills up and down and all around. Her words strike a chord with what I was trying to do in Target earlier. But-

"I can't, I can't!" My words come out panicked, quiet, desperate. I am clinging to her like a rock climber clings to the face of a sheer cliff, like a shipwreck victim clings to the last piece of driftwood, like a helpless baby clings to its mother, like helpless teenager clings to her lover.

She kisses me once, twice, three times; all fast and short, but all effective. They get me to look up at her and stare into her deep chocolatey gaze. "Listen to me- you're going to be fine, OK? We're all going to be fine." I wish I could believe her words, but right now, I feel as though they are just empty promises. Words, that's all they are. Nothing more than the marking of a passage of time.


	17. Tears

**A/N: I'm not terribly sure how this chapter turned out... I find it's much harder for me to write happiness and joy than angst. Hmm... oh, well. Tell me what you think.**

I've calmed down since dinner, but I did lose my appetite so now a couple of hours later I'm starving. I don't want to impose on Margaret anymore, so I'll just handle it. We're watching TV now, some strange Christmas special, as Margaret says. Apparently out here Christmas is more secular than religious, though I still don't really understand how the birth of Jesus could be anything but religious. Margaret promises to explain when she's not so tired.

Currently, she's lying in one of the hotel beds, totally engrossed in a reindeer with a big-ass red nose that makes him sound like he has a cold all the time following around some really short kid who wants to be a dentist, which for some reason is absolutely horrible. And there's this guy with a red beard who keeps licking his pick-ax. What the fuck is this? I have no idea what's going on, but that's OK because Mitchie is snuggled against my chest, sitting between my legs, drifting in and out of sleep. It's very adorable when she wakes up because missing most of the movie leaves her even more confused. She likes to ask me questions about what's going on, though I have no idea.

"Alex... why is there a bird-fish?" The three "heroes" have moved onto the Land of Misfit Toys, and there really is a bird-fish jumping around.

"I have no idea. This movie is weird as shit," I reply, kissing right by her ear. I've noticed that she likes that, that she always seems more peaceful when I kiss her there. She takes this as a good enough answer because she turns away from me to look at the screen. It's still ridiculously magical to me, this whole television thing. I don't really understand it at all, but Margaret assures us that once we get enrolled in school, everything will start to make much more sense. I hope so, but at the same time, I don't want the magic to end.

Margaret shifts slightly and I can tell that she's been watching us giggle and cuddle over here. I am worried that if she notices the more than friendship component of our relationship she'll try to split us up or have a conniption or some other negative reaction. But it's not like either of us have attempted to be very discreet. So I don't know what she's figured out and I'd rather not for the time being. It's such a blissful, ignorant little fantasy we have going here. I must consciously push all thoughts of Max from my mind in order to enjoy anything, and even then it doesn't work very well. Though focusing on trying to figure what the heck is going on with this reindeer is certainly helping.

After the bird-fish does a couple of jumps into the bowl, the images flip to commercials, which are advertisements for things you can buy. Mitchie and I both got really excited when we saw one for Target- the whole collective experience of TV is totally mind-blowing. I mean, this country is about 3,000 miles across and the guy ice fishing in Maine could be watching this, as well as the woman living in Arizona. It's _ridiculous_. I can't wrap my mind around it.

"Hey, girls, you mind if I ask you a personal question?" Margaret looks as though she's been contemplating this for a while and even now there's a certain edge to her voice. I don't know why she would feel fear; she has much more power over us than we do over her.

Mitchie almost recoils, sinking deeper into me, making my chest a little tighter, my breathing a little shallower. She must think that Margaret wants to know about the rape, but that's not what I see in her eyes. "As long as we don't have to answer if it's really, really uncomfortable," I say, mostly to protect Mitchie. I can't imagine anything I would feel too uncomfortable to answer. She's already seen me at my lowest point, already watched me cry my eyes out over my dead brother, already seen the aftermath of my suicide attempt.

Margaret nods thoughtfully. "Fair enough. I'm just wonderin', though- are you girl lesbians?"

I just kind of stare at her, and Mitchie stops suffocating me. "I don't know what that means."

"Really? What about gay? Homosexual?" We both shake our heads. She's blown away by this. "Not even heterosexual? Straight? Anything about sexual orientation?"

Shrugging, I reply, "We didn't really learn much about sex at Havenwood."

Margaret becomes momentarily confused by this and then understands what I'm getting at. "Oh, honey, I ain't talkin' 'bout _sex_. I'm talkin' 'bout _love_."

"Love?" My eyes instantly dart to Mitchie, her face slowly being drained of color. We've been caught, pretty much. We're fucked, I just know it. My brain starts thinking of ways to run, of ways to get out of here, where we could go, anyone we could talk to-

"You're in love with each other, right? I think it's adorable." I feel Mitchie sigh against me, relieved by this reaction. I, on the other hand, am just thrown into shock. For some reason, it feels as though she has shattered our secrecy, shattered the incredibly close bond we formed, the safe cocoon we've been living in together.

"Is that... weird?" Mitchie asks quietly. Even though Margaret's reaction is positive, others' might not be. This world is enormous- it's impossible to predict everything, where as in Havenwood you pretty much knew everything six years before it actually happened. Events here are exhilarating and bone-chilling all at the same time.

Margaret sighs in response to Mitchie's question. "It used to be, people are comin' around. It's everywhere now- on TV, in the movies, in books, in schools, in everyday life. Most people are learnin' to accept it; there's still patches of hate some places, but you'll have as much help as you will trouble."

Mitchie's scared now, like people might try and hurt us. Leaning down close to her, I quickly whisper, "Don't worry. Anyone tries to hurt you, I'll smack 'em sideways." She giggles in this happy sort of twinkling way, enjoying the kiss I place right behind her ear. Then to Margaret, I question, "What about those words you were saying earlier- lesbian, gay- what does all that mean?"

She shakes her head, and I can almost see the tears coming in her eyes. "You poor girls... To have to know you're different from everyone else, but to not even have the words to describe _how_... My heart hurts for you." Interesting choice of words, though I don't complain since she's being really nice and she is right. "But here, those words describe what you are. A lesbian is a girl who is attracted to other girls, who wants to form romantic relationships with them. 'Gay' is the same thing, only it covers boys and girls who feel that way, same with homosexual. Heterosexual and straight mean people who are attracted to the opposite gender."

Lesbian. Gay. Homosexual. All words to describe _me_, Alex Russo. I'd thought this part of me was indescribable, something no one but Mitchie would ever understand. Though here it is, displayed for everyone to see. Everyone out here knows about it, and there are other people like me. Lesbian. I test it out in my head, a smile forming on my face each time. I can't possibly describe how amazing it feels to know that there is a word for this, that I don't have to go around feeling weird and isolated from everyone. To know that there's a word for this part of me that I never really understood... I feel like part of the world again, less of an outcast, more optimistic about this whole thing. "So then I would be... a lesbian?"

"Unless you like boys, too. That would be bisexual- if you like boys and girls," Margaret explains.

I make a face. "Ew. Nope. Just girls for me. Actually, just one girl for me." Mitchie only responds with a smile and a shake of her head, and I take that as enough.

It's later that night, the movie has ended, and Mitchie and I are snuggled up together under the covers. She's on her side, back pressed against my chest, hand holding mine. Her breathing is soft once again, but I still can't fall asleep. I don't know why. I think it has to do with Max and this whole whirlwind of new experiences and how I haven't had much time to grieve, after that first night. Even now, just thinking about him, the skin on my wrists begins to itch and I feel the intense need to scratch them, to hurt them, to punish myself, but I can't get at them- Mitchie's in the way, I just want to get there, to hurt myself somehow to-

"I can't. I can't keep... no..." I'm crying now, little droplets of water sliding off my body and onto Mitchie's. I pay no attention as they reach her face and she goes to wipe them off, waking herself up in the process.

"Alex...?" Bits of concern etch themselves into her face, overriding confusion and exhaustion. "Not this again, Alex. You know he wouldn't want that..."

I can't contain my tears even as she speaks to me, my wrists still itching to be touched. "M-Mitchie. Can you just- just hold my wrists? I can't, I can't... not again." She does exactly what I ask, shifting so that's on her back and I'm crumpled on her chest, bawling. She takes my wrists in her hands, slowly rubbing them with her thumbs. This feels amazing, so much different than attacking them with glass like I tried before. Eventually, it's calming me down enough to ease the pain just to crying, even though that's unpleasant, too.

"Alex... when you said earlier, that you were a lesbian..." There's a hint of uncertainty, a twinge of fear, a smidgen of something I can't identify.

Most of my tears stop at this point, more interested whatever trouble she's going through right now. "Yeah. What about it?"

She moves awkwardly. "What if... I don't like only girls? What if I'm- that other thing Margaret said? Bisexual? But I'd never- not with a boy, not for a while, and not with I have you... but what if I just think they're, like, attractive or handsome or something? Is that... weird? Does is bother you?"

My first instinctive reaction is to tell her it's wrong and strange and that she should choose between boys and girls and that she's only supposed to care about me right now, but then I stop- stop and think. "I guess not. I mean... you still love me, right?" I try to keep my voice from crackling, fear dripping from those last words.

"There should never be a doubt in your mind," she assures me, kissing me just to prove it. "I don't w-want anything with them... not with other girls, either. I just- didn't want you to feel w-weird or get upset or any-anything?"

I think on it some more, not really getting why it would be different. "No. Not really. You can't help that you might like boys and girls, anymore than I can pick to like just girls. Or that I can pick love you, specifically. And as long as it's just me, right now... no, it doesn't bother me."

There must have been an invisible weight pressing down on Mitchie's chest because she takes a deep breath, like she's breathing for the first time. "Good. I..." She looks back down, the words unspoken. She wonders what it would have been like if I had flat out refused, told her that it made me upset, told her that I couldn't handle that. But I don't care one bit- hell, I don't care who else she thinks is attractive just so long as she still loves me, just so long as I'm still at the top of her list.

"I know. Don't worry. I love you." I kiss square on the lips in a more dominant, reassuring way than I ever have before. Almost like I'm claiming her as mine. I think she enjoys this because I feel her letting me dominate her, letting me reassure her with these kisses, kisses that deviate from her lips down to her jaw onto her neck, down to her collarbone. Her breathing increases its pace and, remembering what happened last time she made those noises, I stop and pause just for a moment.

But the reaction I get is much different this time: "Don't stop, Alex." I smile as I go back in for another kiss, back on her lips. My hands slide over her stomach, hers rest on my back, moving all up and down it, slipping under the fabric of-

Margaret gives a loud snort from the bed next to us. We stop instantly, giggling at her noise. She's not awake, though; just a light sleeper. I notice Mitchie's face flushing from all of this, and I find it so cute. "Perhaps we should continue this some other time."

"OK."

I give her one last kiss on the top of her head and then adjust myself so that she's lying on my chest and I'm on my back. It's our favorite way of falling asleep, one that allows us to be in the positions we're most comfortable. "I love you, Mitchie."

"Love you, too, Alex."

I wake up once again, later. At first, I can't put my finger on why, but then I hear it: crying sounds coming from the bathroom. Panicked, startled, scared, I hop out of bed and hurry into the tiled room. All of the lights are off but I'd know those tears anywhere.

"Mitchie...?" She's somewhere by the toilet, I can tell from her sobs, but I don't know exactly where.

"It hurt me, too, Alex. I... he became my brother. I miss him, and I miss all I never knew about him, and I miss everything that he could have been, and every time I see something I think, 'Oh, Max would love that,' but he's not here and dammit, Alex! I can't be strong all the time- I don't know how you do it; you're always there, and now it's my time to be there for you and I just can't do it! And every time I let you down, I feel like I'm letting Max down, too, and he deserves someone who can be strong for his sister, who can help her-"

"No. Shh... You're brilliant, Mitchie, don't be so hard on yourself. Max..." I choke on his name, trying not break down completely before I tell her what she needs to hear, what I know to be true. "Max would be happy just to know that you're still here for me, and that we're both... OK. He loves you, too. He-he loves us... loves us both. Remember... where-wherever he is, he-he loves us."

I fumble through the darkness, my tears not obscuring what I can't even begin to see. I don't trip on the toilet or the towels on the floor and I don't take a misstep when my foot finds hers. And when I collapse next to her, I don't try to do anything but sit beside her.

Nothing touches but our hands- mine covering hers- and our slowly falling tears, mingling atop our hands.


	18. Author's Note

The next chapter should be up sometime today, but I need to send out a request for help, since I am slightly inexperienced in this kind of stuff. I forgot to put this in the author's note in chapter 17, but oh, well.

Anyway. What with the trial coming up, the handling of Max's death, the fact that Alex and Mitchie have absolutely no official government records, their future as part of the US adoption/foster care system (not saying which one it will be yet)- well, I could use a little help understanding the legal procedures behind this. I'm doing research on my own, but it's very hard to find specific answers to most of these questions. So if anyone is a lawyer, has a background in law, knows lots of stuff about law, or has been through a situation where this type of law would be applicable, I would greatly appreciate your help. Thanks!


	19. System

MITCHIE IS 17

"Girls, how would you feel about adoption?" Tom's shifting through a bunch of papers on his desk, totally distracted. I know he wants to help us, but he's got so much other paperwork to deal with considering the influx of kids in custody. Based on the testimonies we gave him the day after the raid, they were able to call Havenwood an unsafe environment for any minor and pull all the remaining children out. They're all invading Child Protective Services, which is where we are now, with Margaret. Tom says that they have to be very careful about this entire thing, though, because of the enormous controversy a similar raid in Texas stirred up last year.

"What about adoption?" I'm not really paying attention to him, more scanning the crowd of children outside his cubicle for people I know. Namely, Justin and Nate.

Tom chuckles at my lack of enthusiasm. "Nothing can happen until the trial, of course, but that's coming up very quickly. A high profile case like this, involving so many people- you kids are going to get justice fast. After the trial, however, there will be some serious problems regarding where you will go, especially for you, Mitchie."

A leaden weight causes my heart to fall right out of my chest and straight onto the floor. Quick as lightning, Mitchie snatches my hand up in a death grip. Neither of us is prepared to lose each other. "Tom, I don't know what you're thinking, but you can _not_ separate us. There is no chance in hell." I lay it out there for him to see, praying that he understands.

He appears to, since he lets out a frustrated sigh at all of the legal documents lining his desk. "I wish it were that simple, but let me break down what could happen to you girls: Alex, your case is much easier. Your father abused you, and both he and your mother knew about abuse that was going on elsewhere and didn't stop it. We can send your father to jail on account of child abuse, and the two of them for child neglect. You'd probably go into foster care, which is a system we have here that places children with different sets of parents temporarily. You'll probably only have one set, since you're going to turn 18 in a little over a year. Then, you are free of the system and will be out on your own. Unless you are adopted- then you become that person's child for the rest of your life." I'm finding it difficult to wrap my mind around this, mostly because Mitchie doesn't fit into the scenario at all. I feel my resolve cracking, my brain exploding, needing to learn what will happen to her. I _need_ to be with her. "When is your brother's birthday, Alex?"

"Um..." I'm caught off guard by the question, confused. "February 17th. Mine's February 19th. We're almost exactly a year apart... He'll be 18."

Tom scrunches his face in confusion. "Technically, he has the option to become your legal guardian once he turns 18-"

"What!" I scream, attracting the stares of people outside the cubicle. It takes me a second to calm down from my initial shock and rage, only just enough to form the words to explain this all to Tom. "You listen to me, OK? I am _not_ sharing a house or being controlled by the cowardly asshole who got my brother killed! I will run away and live on the fucking street if I have to! I'll live in a car until I'm 18, I don't care! But the one thing I will _not_ do is have Justin become my legal guardian!" I am absolutely livid, clearly shocking both Tom and Margaret, but Mitchie's used to my blow-ups. I really should work on controlling them, even if I have every right to be pissed at Justin. One day, when I see him again, I will beat the living daylights out of him and show him the pain I've been enduring for 17 years, and pound into him the pain of losing a sibling, a pain which he clearly does not experience on a daily basis.

Tom nods and Mitchie relaxes he tight grip, opting instead to rub her thumb along the back of my hand. "I understand your feelings, Alex, and I do have confidence that we can find your brother unfit to be your guardian based on his lack of real world experience as well as his knowledge of your continued abuse and his feeble attempts in stopping it. Mitchie, we need to discuss your situation now. I know that neither of you will like hearing this, but the sad fact is, we cannot do anything to Mitchie's parents. As of right now, they are completely innocent."

I want to scream, want to grab Tom by the throat and throttle him until he begs and tells me that he'll find a way for Mitchie to come with me, to keep her safe and away from her horrible parents and Rodney. But I don't because I know she wouldn't appreciate it. Somehow, I manage to keep my fist clenched tightly enough to calm my voice down. "And you can't do anything about that?"

"Honestly, Tom, I don't want to go back to my parents. Not ever again..." Beads of water drip from her eyes and I'm just so sick of seeing her cry. So sick of it.

He nods thoughtfully. "We already have a plan for that. Once the police take Rodney into custody, they'll see if they can force any other confessions out of him about abuse or any other idea that might give them probable cause to search the compound or arrest your parents. They're doing the same thing will all the Shepherds and adults at Havenwood; because they were sister communities, perhaps someone knows something about abuse there. And lastly, we can always try to get you legally emancipated from your parents or declared a ward of the state if none of those work. But don't worry; we'll do everything in our power to keep you both safe. Which is why I suggested adoption. That way, you won't be separated and you'll have a secure financial and familial background to support you."

"I like that one," I say with certainty.

Tom hesitates, like he's afraid to tell us something.

"Tom," I begin with a twinkle in my eye, "after all of this shit, you don't think I can handle what I'm about to tell you?"

"Yes, yes, of course. But girls... it's just so hard for teenagers to get adopted to begin with, and you girls come from a difficult situation as well. Plus, once people learn about the nature of your relationship, they might not be as interested in adopting you."

"I'll do it." This sentiment comes from Margaret, who looks almost as shocked as the rest of us at her declaration.

But the surprise doesn't faze Mitchie for more than a second, as her face cracks into one of the widest smiles I've ever seen. And to be honest, I'm fairly sure mine does something similar. "Really, Margaret?" Her eyes silently plead with Margaret, her face frozen in the most adorable look of joy. There is no way in hell Margaret could possibly say no.

"I can't promise anything, but right now, I'm definitely interested," Margaret says. "Y'all are such wonderful girls, and I can't let this system screw you over. No offense, Tom."

He puts his hands up in the air, a mock defeated look crossing his face. "None taken. We all know the system is flawed. But, you know, it's the government. It's often flawed."

My mouth about drops open as he utters this statement. But it makes me beyond enthused to hear him be able to speak his mind like that, about his leaders. "You can just do that? Criticize your leaders without having to be afraid of getting punished?"

"Of course. It's one of the foundations of our country," Tom replies with a smile. "And I can see that you'll be making great use of that."

"Alex is very opinionated," Mitchie agrees, which earns her a slap on the arm from me. "But that's why I love you." Her demeanor turns quite different as she says the last three words, a shift that only someone who can read her body language as well as I can would be able to detect. I see the seriousness in her statement, the depth of meaning behind those words. We've only said it a couple of times to each other, so the feeling is that we need to reassure the other that it still rings true. Or at least that's my feeling, especially since I tend to not share my feelings at all.

A knock on the door interrupts our conversation. It's one of the interns who showed us in earlier. He was very giddy and kind of way too excited when that happened. "Excuse me, Tom, but there's a boy who wants to see Alex."

"Who?" Tom asks pleasantly, but I already know the answer. Through some twisted sibling bond, I can sense his presence like a dead weight in my stomach.

The intern awkwardly twiddles his thumbs, clearly having heard the previous exchange. "It's her brother. Justin."

"I don't want to see him." I react on instinct, heart hammering in my chest and reducing my rib cage to nothing more than bits of broken, jagged bone piercing me, stabbing. Mitchie knows that this is not her battle, but that doesn't stop her from cautiously placing her arm on my shoulders. Surprising even myself, I allow my head to come to a gentle rest on her shoulder, just in the crook of her neck. She smells like strawberries and apples mixed together, like summertime.

The intern nods gracefully. "I'll tell him that, then. There is also another young man who wishes to speak with one or both of you- does the name Nate Grey mean anything to you?"

If Mitchie's grip hadn't tightened, I would've run out of there and pummeled him until he begged for the forgiveness for all that he did, for all that he tried to do. "He's a sick little bastard."

Wincing slightly at my language, the intern then said, "Well, I take it you don't want to see him."

"Actually... that could be rather interesting." The devilish smile is on my face before my brain can catch up, my feet marching toward the entrance of the cubicle before I hear Mitchie warning me not to go. But this is someone I need to set straight. He's Nate, and he needs to understand why I can't be with him. More importantly, he needs to understand his new position in the world. And I'll be the one to tell him that.

The baffled intern leads me over to a table: Nate on one side, a chair for me on the other, and what I would assume to be a mediator at the head. The intern turns to go and the mediator begins the conversation. "Alex, Nate, it is so lovely that you two are willing to work out your differences."

"Oh, believe me, I don't want to work anything out," I grumble, attempting to quell the hatred and bile rising from my chest.

The mediator blinks her eyes at me a couple of times before plowing on as though I said nothing. "Now- no swearing, and nothing violent. Use your words, not your fists." She looks directly at me as she says this, clearly believing that I'll be the probably. Which I totally will be.

"Can I start?" I just want to say what I have to say and get the fuck out of here.

She's kind of shocked by my enthusiasm. "Er, sure. Alex, you have the floor."

Nate's got his usual expressionless mask on, but I can almost see it twitching in fear as I allow my eyes to bore directly into his. "Remember when you asked me who could give me what I needed?"

"Selfishly, you said yourself," he snorts out. This kind of amuses me.

"Wow. Guess you're over me, then?"

"You disgraced and destroyed Havenwood and our way of living. How can you even begin to ask that?"

I laugh. "Please. I was disgracing that shi- I mean horrible place- long before this. But I just wanted to let you know that I have found someone to give me what I need."

He's not engaged; he's trying to keep his distance to keep his cool. "And who's that?"

"Mitchie."

"She's a girl." No change of expression.

"And?"

"You're still going to need someone to marry." Of course. He doesn't really get it.

"I love her, Nate."

His head spins on the inside, and nearly on the outside as well. The meaning those words held back at Havenwood is the meaning stuck in his mind, the meaning that's making it look as though his rage and confusion will cause him to fold up in upon himself, leaving just a shell. "She's a girl."

"And?"

"She's a girl, Alex! A girl! You can't possibly be happy like that!" I see that I'm shattering his world view, and I like it.

Leaning in as close as possible, I say to him, "You know why I told you this, Nate? Because it makes me _happy_. And there are other kids in this group who have the same feelings or who would otherwise be better off away from that hellhole. And I am just waiting for the day when you come and find me, and tell me that you're happy, too."

With that, I get up from the table, knowing that I just asked him to do the impossible: to be happy. And it will destroy him to know that he'll never reach it.


	20. Snow

**A/N: I apologize for not having this up last night, but the site wasn't letting me log on. And then I had to help my cousin with her wedding all morning. It's not letting me upload a new document, but I've just taken an old document and replaced its content with this. Take that, ! Anyway... I also apologize for the shortness, but the whole first bit of this chapter went on for so long that it would've made too much of a super chapter if I'd have kept going. Barring technical difficulties, the rest of the Christmasness will be up tonight.**

It's snowing outside when I wake up on December 24th. The flakes fall to the ground outside the hotel, coating the ground with a thin layer of white. Joyously, I pop up from the bed and speed over to the window, barely noticing that Mitchie's not in the bed and Margaret's not in the hotel room. It's not my fault about that; snow just does something to me. I'm really excited for this- like small child excited. Snow has always held good memories for me, probably the only good memories of my childhood, the one and only happy memory I have of my family.

_Four years old and running through the trees, the heinous acts of this community cannot yet enter my innocent head. I am bundled up from head to toe in whatever mismatched garb my parents dug up for me. Most of it is Justin's old clothing, things he outgrew two years ago. I'm much tinier than he was at this age._

_ My hat keeps slipping from my head, frustrating me to no end. But I have to keep it on or my father will yell at me. He doesn't like for me to be in danger, even though there's almost no danger here. However, the cold might get to my ears and cause them to turn red and fall off or something. I wasn't really paying attention to what he said about that._

_ But the main goal right now is to avoid Justin, who wants to pelt me with a snowball. He's somewhere on the edge of the woods, too; we're not allowed to go in any deeper. I keep hearing him call my name, but that just proves he's silly since I can tell where his voice is coming from. Occasionally he'll throw a snowball at something else like a tree or a squirrel and I'll have to stop myself from giggling too loudly. I'm mostly caught up in the thrill of avoiding him, which will be even better when I sneak up on him with a snowball of my own. I am a lot cleverer than he thinks a four-year-old girl can be._

_ I think I am getting close to him when all of a sudden the calls stop. I'm suspicious of the silence hanging in the air, whipping around in circles to try and catch his sneak attack. Breathing just a little harder, I start to run. He can't attack me if he can't catch me, right?_

_ Sprinting as quickly as possible, I weave a zigzag route through the trees, all noise becoming muffled by the thick blanket of snow that largely remained untouched. Listening to the sounds of this winter scene makes listening to a symphony seem dull, mostly because of the added acoustics of the snow against the backdrop of the chirping birds, the running rodents, the rustling trees. I'm about to stop and smell the roses but then I remember that Justin's attempting to smack me with his snowball so I keep running._

_ I don't get very far before I bump in to my tiny toddling brother. Little Max hardly comes up to my waist, but the strong look of determination on his face makes him intimidating enough. In the most adorable of ways, of course._

_ "Stop right there!" he says in a very serious voice, his lip in a pout. "None shall pass!"_

_ "Max!" I laugh quietly. "Justin's not supposed to find me!"_

_ "I know." We stand quietly in the snow for a moment before his little face turns devilish. "But I don't care!" Without warning, Max flings himself on me with all the force of his tiny two-year-old frame which is enough to catch me off guard and send the two of us flying to the ground. Barely big enough to cover my torso, Max proudly clamps his hands over my wrists as I squirm beneath him._

_ "Max!" I giggle at him trying to pry his hands off my arms without hurting him. He's so young, so fragile. Mom and Dad always warn me about playing too rough with him. Even though I think it's ridiculous._

_ "You're not getting away, Alex!" This is the first time that anyone has ever called me Alex._

_ "My name's Alexandra, Max!" I shriek at him, fighting off the hand he reaches to slap my face._

_ He looks at me, totally serious, and whines, "But I can't _say_ that!" I take advantage of his confusion to wriggle out from under him and then grab his shoulders. _

_ "I've got you now, Max!"_

_ "Max!" Justin comes running out from the woods, looking all panicked when he spots us. "No, Max!"_

_ "I'm sorry! I tried!" But he doesn't look all that sorry, mostly because I've started to tickle his sides so that he's doubled over with glee right now, hardly attempting to free himself from my clutches. _

_ Justin looks at him oddly, but with a smile. "Put him down, Alexandra! Right now!"_

_ "No way!" I reply with a happy sparkle in my speech._

_ "I mean it! Now!" The whole tone of the situation changes, his tone becoming frighteningly dire as he speaks._

_ Still staring at Max so that he doesn't escape, I say in my laughing tone, "Oh, c'mon, Justin. Nothing's going to-"_

_ I am cut off by a swift crack that damages the peace of the woods. Birds fly away, rodents scamper, and the wind howls almost deafeningly through the trees. Against my hand I feel something warm and sticky. Warm and stick and _red_._

_ I look up at Justin with tears on my eyes, blurry vision focusing on the gun in his hand aimed at a now limp Max. "How could you...?"_

Slow, silent tears drip down my face as I stare into the white abyss now outside the window, swirling and pounding against the glass panes. I feel Mitchie cautiously come up from behind me, reaching her arms around my waist and resting her head on my neck. "What's wrong?"

"Isn't it funny how one fucking thing can taint your entire childhood?" I ask miserably.

She shifts uncomfortably, like she's scared of my reaction to her next question. "I wasn't aware you looked back fondly on your childhood."

I sigh as I almost unconsciously move my hands to cover her own. Her body is slightly damp, indicating a shower. Her wet hair brushes against the back of my pajama shirt. "I had one. Maybe there were more from when I was a baby, but I can't remember those."

"Tell me about this one." Her voice lands feather light on my ears and I feel like I have to go on.

But not before I take a huge, shaky breath. "It was snowing. We were all little- Justin was five, I was four, and Max was only two. And it was just such a normal thing: the three of us running around in the snow, the two of them ganging up on me. Then Max kept flip-flopping sides between me and Justin and the two of us eventually decided to gang up on him. Mom and Dad came in to help Max, and we had a snowball fight. I don't remember what happened after. But I didn't get to relive that whole memory. When Justin and Max were about to pelt me with snowballs, it changed. Justin had a gun and... and he shot Max." My grips tightens around the windowsill and my entire body tenses up, but Mitchie still holds on. "That memory was... it was my whole childhood, Mitchie. N-nothing else was ever that good again. And now it's ruined! It's all fucking ruined!" I kick fiercely at the wall, but Mitchie still won't let go. If anything, she squeezes me tighter.

"The memory is still there. You just have to give yourself some time to find it," Mitchie advises.

"I'm not sure I want to," I mumble bitterly. "I'm not sure if I want to remember Justin as anything worth more than a pile of shit because of what he caused to happen. And my parents... I don't know if I want it back."

She kisses right where my shoulder and my neck join in a sloping curve- gently, softly, tenderly. "Someday, you will. Trust me. Someday you'll want it back. As much as I hate my parents, I will always remember one thing they used to do for me- every Sunday, without fail. That is, until the day I stopped speaking."

"What did they do for you?"

Even though I can't see her face, I can feel her lips curl into a smile against my neck. "Every Sunday, before morning services, my dad would make pancakes in funny shapes. That's it. I just... it felt like they cared so much when the three of us were in there, trying to get the batter in the perfect shape and we'd compete to see who did it the best. That's my childhood; I lived for Sundays."

"How do you not hate them?" I can't believe how calm and happy she's being about this entire thing. I'm still ready to pummel Justin whenever I get the chance to see him, though Tom seems to think it's best we stay separate for now.

"People change, Alex. Some get better, lots get worse. It's not a bad thing to happily remember who they used to be in spite of who they've become," she says.

"You're too damn insightful, you know that?'

She leans over to kiss me on the cheek. "I know."

I take one last look at the snow before allowing her to drag me away from the cold window, back to the warmth.


	21. Gifts

Margaret comes in happily about half an hour later with a semi-large package and a couple of bags in her arms. The snow has made her cheeks bright red but she is smiling all the way. "Look what I got us."

Mitchie and I get up from the bed to investigate Margaret's gift. It's just a box with a picture of an evergreen tree on the side and the words: "Miniature Christmas Tree." Christmas tree? In Havenwood, Christmas sure as hell was no happy affair. We spent most of the day atoning for our sins in the High Chapel and then fasting, only to have a massive feast at the end of the day. But the feast was never worth all the beating I got for not being able to sit still for nine hours.

"Margaret... what's a Christmas tree?" Mitchie asks as I start to play around with the box, reading all of the descriptions I can find.

She puts the bags down with a grunt and then looks at Mitchie. "Y'all didn't have Christmas trees back at your old place? Thought it was religious and all."

"Christmas was a day of asking for forgiveness from Jesus," I explain. "We fasted and prayed and got our asses beaten to the ground for most of the day. I hated it."

Being who she is, Margaret promptly ignores every uncomfortable detail we present about our previous situation unless we continue to push the subject. I think that she realizes we want to be treated like normal, happy people even though we're clearly fucked-up-beyond-belief, depressed people. At least, I am most of the time. Because of Max. If it weren't for him, I would... I _would_ be normal. It swings my mind back around to the dream again, to the things that I can't change. And how much I would love to throw Justin's guts through a blender at this very moment (Margaret told me about blenders, but has stated that I can never go near them).

"Well, here Christmas is the happiest time of year. Y'all don't know 'bout Santa Claus, do you?" Margaret asks excitedly. It almost breaks my heart to tell her that neither of us have any idea what she's talking about. And her face falls about three inches. "I really should've met you kids when you were younger. You're too old to believe in Santa Claus, but there's this whole story about him. He rides down on reindeer and magically gives presents to kids all over the world and there's this whole internet thing- man! I miss believing in something!" She intends that to be a lighthearted comment, possibly even funny, but it strikes a chord in Mitchie. I've never believed in anything, but she definitely has some faith in something. And right now, it looks shattered beyond repair. I reach out, running my hand up and down her arm in what I hope is comforting and not creepy manner.

"Me, too." I think it must be Max's death that has finally pushed whatever faith she had over the edge. I've never realized how much of a spiritual person Mitchie and just how much of religion she believed in. I make a mental note to ask her later.

"So what do Christmas trees have to do with all this?" I sense that Christmas- for reasons unknown- is a very special and happy time for Margaret, and I don't want to ruin it for her. Interestingly, she seems to take a ridiculous amount of joy in sharing her traditions with us. I'm probably just not that type of person- I suspect that Mitchie would be the same way, after how she lit up with the simple pancake story.

"That's where Santa puts the presents," Margaret explains. "He leaves the presents under the tree on Christmas Eve night and then all the kids wake up on Christmas morning to find them and you unwrap them. It's great." She's laughing like hell now, really invested in her childhood memories.

A thought strikes me, making me incredibly giddy at the prospect. "Is Santa the only one who gives presents at Christmas? Well, it's not really Santa, but do you give gifts to your friends and stuff?"

It's Margaret's turn to be absolutely giddy about this whole deal. "That's a brilliant idea! Why didn't I think of that?"

"So friends don't give each other presents? Was that a strange request?" I'm kind of confused by her reaction to that statement.

She laughs again, looking at both Mitchie and me. "No, no; it's totally normal. But I just never realized you girls would be into that."

"I am- even though I don't have any money to buy anything," I say. Which is too bad, because I have a perfect idea for Mitchie's gift. And I'd have to get something for Margaret, because she's been so great to us this entire time. Even though I don't know what to get her.

Mitchie smiles widely at Margaret, but also slyly as though they're sharing a secret. I don't like that. "We could always make each other something," she suggests with a giggle.

"What?"

"I was just imagining what your artwork would look like." I am shocked that she would say such a thing, considering that she's so, you know, _nice_.

But I have to admit that she's right. "It would probably be black because I'd just mix all the colors together."

"They actually turn out brown when they mix them all together," Mitchie informs me and I nudge her on the shoulder.

"Shut up. Even though you're right. My art skills were never developed properly."

"I know. It's been a source of great tension in our relationship, but I've gotten over it." We've never really done any of this before- it seems kind of like a more, laid-back version of the courtship rituals we had at Havenwood to "attract mates" or whatever it was we were supposed to be doing. Only our version of it tends to make me actually want to continue dating Mitchie. I'd probably want to continue dating her even if she whipped out one of the Havenwood courting statements, actually. But that's just a testament to how much I love her, because I'd knock the shit out of anyone else if they tried that.

Margaret smirks at us in such a motherly way, it's weird. Probably just because I've never seem my mother make a similar face. "You girls are so cute, with your flirtin'."

"What's that?" Mitchie wonders, suddenly embarrassed by our display of affection. Her mood swing about this is certainly understandable, but that doesn't mean I don't feel the effects. Jesus Christ, I can't wait to kill Rodney.

"Flirtin'?" Once again, Margaret is surprised by our lack of knowledge. "It's what y'all were just doin'... I don't really know how else to say. Maybe, like, the way you talk to someone you're interested in?"

At this Mitchie goes into a full-on, red-faced blush. It's so cute. Her feminine charms are very disarming to me, I realize. "We'll try to keep it to a minimum in front of you," I say with a smile.

"Oh, don't you worry your pretty little head about it." She turns to face Mitchie directly as she drawls, "I think it's a_dor_able."

Mitchie buries her face into my chest, which would concern me, if I couldn't feel her smile against my skin through the fabric of my T-shirt. "I think you're hurting her feelings."

Margaret agreed to take us shopping and steal some of Tom's money to let us get Christmas presents for each other. So that we don't know what the other's getting, I'm going with Tom and Margaret's going with Mitchie. Apparently she thinks that Tom and I will connect better, which is probably true because she and Mitchie were discussing dresses on the car ride to the mall.

The mall, by the way, is even more impressive than the hospital. And more impressive than Target, too. It's like a bunch of mini-Targets all clumped together... I can't even describe it. I mean, one of the stores there sells _only_ chocolate. How on earth do they get by on that business? But apparently it's quite a good business since it has more people than a lot of the other stores.

And speaking of people, there's a lot of them. According to Tom (who likes to spew off random facts), today- Christmas Eve- is one of the biggest shopping days of the year, after something calls Black Friday. He thinks that any descriptions of Black Friday might fry my brain, though, so he hasn't said much on the subject. I'm OK with this, because there's so many people here today. Since this mall is tinier than most, he considers this a small amount of people. I can't get past the concept that there can be so many people in one place, not really knowing each other, not really interacting. Everything I've ever been brought up to know states that we interact and be all friendly with our neighbors. Back where I'm from, everyone knows everyone else. It's kind of strangely relieving to live in a world where I can be who I want to be without worrying about everyone's eyes following each step I take.

"So what do you want to get Mitchie?" Tom asks after he's finished explaining all the stuff about malls to me.

"I want to make her pancakes," I reply in a determined voice.

Tom eyeballs me. "Look, kid, I know you're kind of new to the whole romance thing, but pancakes? That's kind of like a breakfast-in-bed, anniversary, get-well-soon sort of present. Not Christmas."

"I didn't understand half of what you just said," I confess, "but this is a childhood memory for her. Like, a good childhood memory. God knows we could both use more of those. Her parents used to make her funny shaped pancakes on Sunday mornings."

I hope he comprehends the significance of this memory. He'd better; it's kind of like his job to search through dysfunctional childhoods. "Well, we could get her pancake batter...? I don't really know much about the art of pancake making. These pancakes. Were you planning on cooking her some?"

"Yeah," I mumble. "Her parents used to make them into letters and shapes, and I want to do something with that, but I honestly can't think of something that doesn't sound wonderfully cliched."

He just laughs at that. "Mitchie's _definitely_ the type of person who would enjoy something cliche."

"How do you even know that? You don't know her at all," I point out.

Tom shrugs and steers me into a store called Trevor-Dunman Co-op. "It's my job to read people, get to the heart of their troubles. Plus, I've dated enough girls to recognize certain types."

My mind is once again totally blown- by both Tom's statement and the variety of items stocked upon the shelves of the Trevor-Dunman Co-op. "What do you mean you've dated lots of girls? Don't you have to make it official or something- can't you only date one person of your choice?"

Now he's staring at me like I've grown an extra head. "What? No. You can date whoever you want, though dating more than one person at the same time is generally frowned upon. Is that the way it was at Havenwood?"

"It was horrible. Plus they only even told us that we could be... straight? I think that's the right one," I say.

Tom makes a face. "It's a good thing you busted out of there."

"Yeah..." I'm remembering Max again, his smiling face popping into my mind. On one hand, I'm happier than I've ever been out here in the real world. On the other, I would still have my little brother if I had just stuck it out for another night or two. Things would have been so different...

"Here. This is the best pancake mix I have ever tasted. Probably what you need... Alex? Alex?" I hardly register what he's saying, my mind a swarming cloud of black dust. How could I be so selfish?


	22. Christmas

I'm lying down on the hotel bed, eyes shut but not asleep. The whole episode in the store with Tom has been making me think like crazy about my little brother. I mean, it's been a couple of weeks and... well, should I be feeling any better? I don't know since I've never lost someone this close to me, nor have I ever known anyone go through that kind of pain. We don't really talk about grief at Havenwood because death is usually celebrated as getting close to the Lord. It's like a reward or something. There's a bittersweet sadness in the community because while that person is gone, they are in heaven. Or at least that's what everyone believes.

I don't know if Max is in heaven. I'm sure if there was one, he'd be a shoe-in to get there. But I don't know if there's a heaven in the Biblical sense, so I can't be positive that he's in a better place. I can't imagine he'd find anything better than being free down here. I honestly can't- if I had been the one killed instead of him I wouldn't be happy. No matter how perfect a place I end up, it couldn't possibly be better than enjoying the freedom I've earned. After going through years of what probably is considered torture, to earn that freedom is so much more rewarding than having it being gifted to me by some higher being. Maybe that's my personality. I don't know.

Margaret and Tom decided to give Mitchie and I some alone time to work out whatever troubles I still keep having with Max. So far, we haven't done much talking. It's not really awkward or anything; I think both of us just need to figure out what exactly it is we need to say. She was staring out the window the last time I opened my eyes, singing quietly to herself. It didn't sound like one of the hymns we had at Havenwood, but I don't know what else it could be. Maybe it's one of those Christmas jingles Margaret was trying to get us to listen to. I found them kind of strange and silly. We didn't have much in the way of music at Havenwood.

I'm still not terribly sure about the whole Christmas thing. It seems kind of like a foreign concept to me, which I guess it is. I have no good memories associated with the holiday. However, there are certainly plenty of bad memories and even a handful of horrible ones. Everyone here, though, seems to love it so much. Like there's a magic surrounding the entire season. I can't figure out why. It must have something to do with the memories being tainted by childhood that I can't seem to get past. Why can't I get past this! Everything! Mitchie's having such a fucking easy time of it, getting over all this stuff when we got out of Havenwood. She's well adjusted and happier than I've ever seen her. I haven't had to endure half the shit that she has- nothing like it all. And here I am, complaining and sulking and just being an idiot. I mean, come on, Alex! She can get over Max, get over being _raped_, and you can't get over a damn thing!

Everything is crashing down on me now, when it all should be working out. I'm _free_, for God's sake. Finally, and all I want to do is mope around. What is WRONG with me? What the hell is WRONG with me?

I let out an anguished cry and slam my fist against the headboard, completely forgetting that Mitchie's also in the room. Predictably, she turns to give me a concerned look. "Alex, what's wrong?"

"Who the fuck knows?" I mumble grumpily. I try not to look at her face, because the adorable concern will probably turn me into a gibbering mess of tears, which is not what I need right now.

Sighing, she sits down on the bed and I move away, flinching. "Then why do you think something is wrong?"

"There's nothing wrong. It's not a problem," I reply.

"You're certainly acting like there is," she shoots back.

I groan, thrusting a pillow over my face. "Everything's wrong, OK! I can't I'm even having this conversation."

"Alex, if you don't want to talk to me, then just say it. But don't act all sad and expect me to sit by and do nothing," she says, slightly upset. I don't think I've ever seen her upset- sad, depressed, disappointed, but never upset in an angry way. And the worst part? I have no idea how to fix it, short of telling her what's on my mind, and I don't know if I want to do that.

I grumble at her, "Fine. I don't want to talk about it."

She looks kind of hurt, a smidgen disappointed, but definitely not upset or angry. Not anymore. It's not like those other emotions make me feel much better about myself, though. I don't want to hurt her anymore, yet I can't seem to talk about these emotions because I don't understand them! So fucking frustrating.

"I can't just whatever's on the top of my head, you know," I say by way of explanation and maybe a tad defensively.

She looks at me with a sad smile. "I do know. It's fine."

"Just because you always know what's going on in your head doesn't mean we all do."

"I know."

"You really have no idea what's going on in my mind, Mitchie."

"Maybe I don't." She appears so nonchalant, not reacting to anything I'm saying. And it's annoying the fuck out of me! I _need_ to know what she's thinking.

"Of course even I don't know what I'm thinking!"

"It's fine, Alex. I'm not asking you to tell me anything."

"Good!" I shout at her, jumping off the bed, trapping myself between it and the wall. "'Cause I don't even know what to tell you!"

"You don't, do you?"

"No!" I kick at the bed, only serving to make my foot hurt but in a weird way it feels kind of good. "How am I supposed to know what to feel! Shouldn't I feel happy, because I'm free, and then, and then- shouldn't I be sad, because Max is gone? But then- I should be happy because we have such a fucking good life here! And I can't let go of my goddamn useless childhood, and you can and I should be able to! I've been through _nothing_ compared to you and I killed my brother- FUCK!" I scream the last word as loudly as I can, letting the pitch echo through the empty apartment like a crackling gunshot.

Without warning, Mitchie launches herself off the bed and directly at me, mashing our bodies together, colliding us into the wall. Her arms hold me tightly, like they're squeezing the air right out of my lungs. Never before have I been held as though I'm the only thing allowing someone to cling onto life; simultaneously, I want this moment to happen every day and never to occur again. It's terrifying and stimulating, the way she has herself pressed against me in the most needy, desperate of ways.

She kisses my neck- not like she's trying to get me to do the same to her, but like her brain has gone on overdrive and she must provide as much comfort, as much love as she possibly can. "Sometimes the brave need the most help because they have suffered the most," she whispers. "You're the brave one, Alex; don't be afraid to ask for help."

I try to respond to her words, but all that comes out are dry sobs that wrack my body whole, sending shivers down to my core.

After my breathing rate slows down, Mitchie figures that it's time to have a calm talk with me. She's probably right. "Alex... I don't know where to start."

"Neither do I. All of this is so confusing right now, but I'm just too emotionally spent to get worked up about it again." That's true. I feel like I'm ready to collapse right about now even though I can't physically sink any further into this bed. Mitchie's lying next to me, both of us on our backs and staring up at the ceiling, not touching at all.

She sighs deeply, smiles a little. "Good. Then we can get through this easy. You're being way too hard on yourself, Alex. Nothing will come to you without self-respect and self-esteem; I thought we discussed this back at Havenwood, that one time?"

I shrug as best I can. "It's hard not to beat myself up after something like this. I'm not perfect, but I feel like I have to be for everyone around me. Any show of weakness feels... _wrong_."

"You're a person, Alex, not a god. Everyone around you? We can fend for ourselves every once in a while," she says with an adorable smirk without looking at me.

I swallow over-dramatically, chewing on my lip as I think. "Maybe... I don't know what to be anymore. All I ever knew, everything I was-" I stop, not terribly sure how to go on and place thoughts into words.

"Everything you were was defined by the society you lived in. You rebelled against things you thought were wrong and fought to protect people you love. Now, there's nothing left to rebel against, nothing left to protect us from." She flips over to her side and slides her hand over to touch my cheek, forcing my teary eyes to stare into her steadfast ones. "We hold on to what we know, and you- your whole existence was defined by getting out of there. Now that you're here, you don't know who you are any more. And that's why you can't let go of who you were."

I force my eyes away from her, drawing them to my hands fiddling with the bottom of my shirt. "What if I can't find someone else to be?"

She actually lets out a small laugh at this. "There will always be someone, somewhere who needs someone to fight for them. You just have to keep looking."

"And what about until then?" My voice barely cracks a whisper.

"You're always my love, Margaret's new best friend, and Tom's most exciting person ever. And even more, you'll always be Alex. I think it would be pretty hard to get away from that." She giggles like a small child, finding humor in the most unlikely and unintentional places.

I'm not thoroughly convinced, my brother's death still lingering in my mind. "And Max... how does he fit into all of this?"

Her smile fades and her hand finds its way into mine. "There's no deep explanation for that, no real words of encouragement I can offer you. Nobody can save everyone, Alex. And that's just something you're going to have to understand yourself."

I don't know what else to say, mostly because no more words see fit to crawl out of my mouth. I realize that I still have to make Mitchie pancakes, though I'll have to talk to Tom about that because I have no idea how to cook at all. My parents always thought that I was tempted by fire because of all the Satanic symbolism, and by that I mean they thought I was attracted to it because of the fires of Hell. Whatever. I'm over them. Sort of.

"I love you, Mitchie. Really." I hope she understands that even though I can't express that, I mean it with all of my heart.

She leans over and kisses me on the nose- it's so cute that I have to smile widely at her as she mutters, "I love you, too, Alex. Really really."

At that moment, Margaret bursts in, her eyes happy. "Who wants to go on a field trip?"

Tom's house is very nice from what I can tell. He has a kitchen, a dining room, a living room, two bathrooms, and three bedrooms. He's invited us to stay with him for Christmas because he doesn't think that our hotel room is good enough. Margaret brought the tiny little Christmas tree she bought early, though it looks kind of pathetic next to Tom's giant one. It's huge! It goes almost all the way to the ceiling with a cartoon character named Snoopy perched on top. Tom tried to explain to me who Snoopy is, but I don't really understand. He promises to get me some of the old comic strips some day, even though I'm not quite sure what those are.

"Hey, Tom?" It's almost bedtime and I've just caught him on his way out from the bathroom.

He looks kind of really tired but is ready to help anyway. "What?"

"I was just wondering if you'd help me with the pancakes in the morning. I've never used a stove before."

At this, he smiles widely. "Sure, kiddo. No problem." He ruffles my hair- which appears to be a sign of fondness- and stalks off to bed with a huge yawn. I, too, decide to go to bed, but I doubt I'll be able to sleep. I'm too nervously excited for tomorrow: both nervous and excited to give Mitchie her present, both nervous and excited to find out what Tom and Margaret's Christmas is really like. Because honestly part of me is afraid that someone will ring the doorbell in the morning, commanding us to go to chapel and pray silently, and then paddle us every time we make a movement. And I know that I won't be able to stay still because I've never been able to stay still, and I'll be beyond angry because-

Breathe, Alex. Just breathe.

I manage to get into the room in one piece, Mitchie already curled up on the bed. Smiling, I just look for a moment. Somehow I always find a certain form of peace in watching Mitchie sleep- not in some creepy way, but it relaxes me as though something has clicked in the universe and we're alright. I don't know why or how; it just happens.

"You know I'm not asleep, Alex. I see you staring," comes from the bed, followed by a twinkling laugh.

I blush red as hell at this. "I wasn't staring."

"Yeah, you were."

"Well, only because you're absolutely beautiful," I reply smugly.

"What did Margaret call this?"

"Flirting, I believe." I've moved over to the bed now, sitting on the edge and pushing her body over a little so I can wriggle in under the covers.

She grabs onto my pajama shirt, drawing me in with an intoxicating mixture of scent, sight, and touch. "I think we're doing quite a good job of it." Her voice has dropped to a lower growl almost, a husky quality I've not really heard before. My mind doesn't really understand why but my instincts do, creating a passionate and undeniably sexual tingling all over my body- it's nearly a hum.

"Really?" Our bodies get achingly closer to each other, legs and feet touching at the end of the bed, hands worming their way toward each other.

Her face comes right in front of mine, just inches away, so near that I can't tell if I'm breathing air or her. "Absolutely."

And we meet in a kiss, slow and loving, but still tentatively building. Everything about it- from our moving lips to our roaming hands- feels like it's on the brink, ready to explode into something more if one of us would just push it over the edge. I know it can't be me. Definitely not me.

But it doesn't need to be me since she climbs on top of me, legs straddling either side of my hips, just barely brushing against them. Her hands drift from my shoulders down along my sides, running the length of them all the way down to my waist. And she stops. "Alex..."

I see the pain behind her eyes, the confusion, none of it dimmed by the darkness. I take her hands in mine and remove them from waist. Bringing them up to my lips, I place a kiss on each one. "You lead, and I'll follow." It's all the encouragement she needs.

Her lips fall back onto mine, still feather light to the touch. But the animal instinct inside of me takes over, and I wrap my arms around her neck to pull her down. She lays down totally on top of my body, everything touching and pushing and rubbing together in a mismatched sort of rhythm. We're not experienced by anyone's standards, but even so I can't imagine ever feeling any better.

Boldly and slowly, I move my hands over the smooth cream of her back, causing a gasp and a moan and a throaty, "Keep going." I let my fingers dance up further timidly, fumbling around the straps of her bra. But I'm not going to take it off. That would be too much for me right now- I can't imagine what it would be for her.

I have no time to think about that, however, as her hand slips under my shirt and begins to rub my stomach in small circles causing a sensation that feels like she's tickling me, only it doesn't make me want to laugh. I slowly try to move my mouth to her ear, kissing the spot behind it that she absolutely loves. And it this heightened state, it appears to make her lose it as well. Her breathing speeds up and more moans and indistinguishable words flow from her mouth as I move from her ear to her jawline, south to her neck. I reach her shoulder, her collarbone, the edge of her shirt. I'm about ready to give up, to return to her lips, when I hear, "Keep going."

My hands frighteningly move up from her waist, taking her shirt along with them. It slides over her head and lands needlessly onto the ground beside us. Doubt clouds her eyes, but it's mixed with the same desire I fill up mine.

"Wait," I say, using my hands to lift up my own shirt and throw it on the floor as well. "Now we're even."

I watch her eyes rake over every inch of my body, and I do the same to her; we're both still wearing our bras, but I can't help but notice absolutely wonderful the curve of her breasts look in that bra, the smooth skin on her stomach expanding and contracting with each quick breath she takes. And I can't help but feel self-conscious as her hands explore my stomach, wordlessly questioning me about the batch of scars there.

"Sometimes the whip... came around front," I explain, voice cracking. For a second, it's just like the old days; instead of responding with words, she responds with touch. At my statement, Mitchie moves back on the bed, drifting so that her hips rest between my legs and her face is over my stomach. Her warm breath bounces off my skin, chilling it to the point of shivers.

"Don't worry; you're safe now." She kisses my stomach, kisses and sucks on each scar as my hands tangle in her hair and shallow moans escape from my mouth. She continues back up, kissing each patch of skin, the area right between my breasts and then a kiss on each one, on each part she can reach without removing my bra. We're not ready for that yet.

She's afraid to do it, I can tell, as her hand just hovers in the air right over my chest, but I'm not afraid. My own hand reaches up to grab hers and lowers it down over my chest. At first, she's not really sure what to do, but after trying a couple of different things, she starts to squeeze and pinch and rub. And I can't believe my brain is even functioning anymore, the pleasure erupting everywhere and causing me to move under her touch.

Then- even more great- she takes one of my hands that is resting on her back and moves it right over her chest. We stop kissing for a moment, stop everything, my hand just resting there. "Are you sure...?"

"You trust me; I can trust you." She hungrily attacks my lips as I repeat the same motions on her breasts as she did on mine until at last our fatigued bodies fall back onto the bed and into each others arms.

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

Christmas morning dawns with Margaret playing those annoyingly catchy songs and yelling at us all to get up. Groaning, Mitchie and I move from the warm safety of our bed, not realizing we're still in just bras. We stare at each for a moment, and then start to laugh. Last night will always play in my memory like a beautiful song you have stuck in your head but never want to get out.

"Are you excited?" I ask, almost bouncing with the same trepidation I felt last night as I put on my pajama shirt and get ready to exit.

Mitchie's words are muffled by the shirt she's pulling over her head, but I can still understand them: "More than ever."

"Then let's go."

In the hall, nothing has changed, but once we enter the living room, it becomes clear that either Tom or Margaret did some extra decorating in addition to putting the gifts out. There's now golden streamers all around the ceiling, the tree having more ornaments than it did last night. While Mitchie goes to gush over the decorations with Margaret, Tom snatches me up and into the kitchen.

"Hey," he says quietly so as not to attract their attention. "I mixed the batter up- you didn't miss anything; I just added water. Also, the stove's ready to go."

I so don't get what he wants me to do. "Tom, when I say I haven't cooked anything... I mean that as literally as it sounds."

This doesn't deter him; if anything, he grows a wider smile. "OK, well, it's easy. All you have to do is put the batter in this pan and then arrange it into whatever shape you want. Did you come up with any good shapes?"

"I think I want to spell 'LOVE' with four pancakes," I reply. Even though it seems slightly cliched, it just seems to fit. I don't know why, but I'll feel very proud when I present her with the pancakes of love. I know I will.

Tom and I have quite the time trying to spell that out properly considering how neither of us really have many cooking skills. In the end, the "L" is a little crooked, the "O" looks a little more like an oval, the "V" is lopsided, and the "E" looks like its missing the middle stem. But it's the best we got while Margaret was distracting Mitchie. Apparently Tom set up that part of the plan without my knowledge. Thank God for that.

Finally, we call Margaret and Mitchie into the kitchen. Margaret looks like she's about to burst to laughter and the horrible craftsmanship/undeniable cuteness of the gesture while Mitchie's eyes are filled with tears- happy tears- as she runs to hug me.

"Thank you." She pecks me behind the ear and pulls away. "Shall we eat?"

The pancakes, surprisingly, are actually good. Tom claims that this is because it's impossible to screw up pancakes that come from batter, but Margaret and Mitchie both assure us that it's from my intense cooking skills.

We retreat to the living room and exchange some more presents. Margaret gets both Mitchie and I bracelets, though mine is made from black leather and hers has some sort of charm thing on it. She gets Tom a set of salt-and-pepper shakers that look like lobsters because he's from Maine and lobsters are a staple up there or something. Tom had no idea what to buy for three girls, so he gives us all toothbrushes and then says that offering us his house is the real gift, to which we all agree.

And then it's time for Mitchie's gift to me.

It's a small box, just big enough to fill up the palm of my hand. Curious, I lift the lid off the box to see a cross on silver chain bearing the words "Who are you?"

"It was Max's," she mutters quietly. "The night we escaped, he asked me to put it in my pocket while he went to change clothes. He carried it every day, and I never gave it back. I thought it belonged in the family."

Choked up, I let the tears fall from my cheeks as she hooks the necklace on. But they're more serene tears now, because I know where he is now. Well, I don't really know, but I've got an idea.

In this moment, I know that there's something more than us out there, some other entity that allows the spirits to live on. Because I can feel him in this very room, like a wind on a tranquil summer's night. Somewhere around us, somewhere surrounding us, there he is.

Here he is.


	23. Confrontation

Christmas has come and gone, fading into New Year's and continuing on into early January. Margaret's been talking to Tom about adopting us, while Tom informs us daily about developments about the case. Because Mitchie is a minor, it seems as though any accusation of any sort of abuse (including rape) is enough to pull the guy in for questioning. Rodney has been in police custody since last night when the Washington State Police arrested him on charges of rape. While Mitchie, Margaret, and I wanted to have a party, Tom told us not to get too excited. It will be incredibly hard to prove that Mitchie was in fact raped since it happened a year ago and there's no evidence anymore. I try not to think about that, because I know it will just make me destroy something, anything.

"They've got Rodney in the police station, but they can't make any promises," Tom says when we enter his office bright and early this morning. "He's denied all the accusations, of course."

"So what!" My voice raises just a little bit, but I manage to keep it mostly under control.

He avoids looking at me and does something on the computer. "It becomes a case of he said, she said. There is no way to prove that Mitchie is more right than Rodney is, even though I believe her story."

Angrily, I snap at him, "How is that fair? How can you just let little perverts like that run free?"

"I don't like that thought any more than you do, but think about it: if, in a country as big as ours, we arrested every person who was accused of something, it would be chaos. You could accuse your adulterous husband of murder just to spite him even if he did nothing wrong. That's why we need proof."

"What about how she was mute for a year?" Margaret asks. We told her our entire story during the week between Christmas and New Year's in hopes that she might be able to help with the trial a little more. At least, that was my main motivation. Mitchie wanted to get to know her better, wanted her to know us better. Of course I want to be friends with her and all, but I don't know... I still don't know how to share my feelings without nearly breaking down. Having Max's necklace has given me some form of closure, but I think I'll have to wait until the trial to fully understand all of this.

Tom shakes his head. "They won't care. That can easily be spun by the defense to be a result of the compound as a whole and not stemming from one specific incident. What we really need is one of the Shepherds from Havenwood to say something. I highly doubt that they'll say anything outright but with enough pressure, the authorities might be able to get them to crack."

"Go for Todd," I tell him instantly.

"What?"

"The Shepherds. One of them is named Todd, and he's got about the willpower of three-year-old. He should tell you fairly easily." My mind swarms with possibilities of meeting the Shepherds in the courtroom. I don't know much about the American judicial system, but I keep seeing flashes of them all being taken away by police officers and thrown behind jail bars for the rest of their lives (Margaret showed me pictures): the Mother, the Father, the Shepherds, Todd, my parents, Damien, Rosslyn, Justin... Justin. Instantly, things are clear. "Tom, what if someone saw my brother get shot?"

He doesn't really get this statement judging by his furrowed brows, but it's enough to make him look up from his computer. "What do you mean, 'saw him get shot?' Didn't you see him get shot?"

"Yeah, but what if the person was standing near the shooter?" My voice turns alive with the idea of my brother getting the punishment he deserves for his hand in Max's death. "What if they could have stopped the shot?"

Tom smiles at me. "Maybe you should be a lawyer, Alex. That's a good thought. Depending on the circumstances surrounding the shooting, they might be able to be charged as an accessory. Who do you have in mind?"

"My brother Justin."

Tom's already dialing the phone as he says to me, "I think you need to go to the police station."

Twenty short minutes later, Margaret, Mitchie, and I arrive at the police station. Tom has to stay and work, leaving us in Margaret's care. We've been here a handful of times before in the past week to report the rape and leave a couple of statements about Havenwood in general. Detective Porter is in charge of the whole investigation and told us just to come up to the front desk whenever we need her help.

Today, though, she finds us as she's walking through the main lobby, coffee cup and manila folder in hand. "Alex, Mitchie. How are you girls doing today?"

I shrug and Mitchie just smiles. "We're doing alright, I guess. We came here to give a testimony, actually."

Detective Porter's interest is instantly piqued by the new information we're promising. "Oh?"

I try to go on, but I falter slightly and look to Mitchie. She weaves her fingers with mine and says the words that hurt too much for me. The anger, the bravery I felt with Tom is gone now in the face of this stranger, in this cold environment. "We want to talk about Max's death. We think... we might have a way to find out who s-shot him."

"I'll take you into my office, girls," Detective Porter says, trying to hide the excitement she feels at coming one step closer to catching the bad guy.

Margaret puts her hand on my arm to stop us for just a moment. "I'll wait out here for you guys, OK? I think this is something y'all should do for yourselves."

"Thanks, Margaret," Mitchie whispers. But I can see behind her eyes that she's terrified. This is the first time we'll be reliving that horrible ordeal aloud since it happened. Even with Margaret we didn't go into details because we both threatened. Now, though, we have to be strong. There is no room for weakness in this police station, not if we want Justin to help us. Not if we want to punish whichever sick bastard that killed my brother and ruined everything he could be.

Stepping into Porter's office, I feel my chest constricting and the weight of the information I hold pressing down upon my small frame and trapping me in that one memory, looping continuously in my head. "Sit down, please," she offers, gesturing to two chairs. I sit, but the flashes don't stop. Every time I close my eyes to blink, I see red. Justin. Max. Rosslyn. Damien. Gun. That night. "So what is it you girls know?"

"Damien shot him," I blurt out, not able to keep that in any longer. I don't know if Mitchie recognized Damien's partially hidden sneer that night, but I've never asked. _Who_ killed Max has never seemed nearly as important as the simple fact that he is dead, especially because I've been blaming Justin for the entire incident all this time. I've never admitted out loud that it's Damien's fault, Damien whose hands Max's blood is on.

"The Enforcer Damien?" Porter asks, and I can tell by Mitchie's face that she has just found out from my words that it was Damien. I should have known from the beginning that no good would ever come of my relationship with that man.

"Yeah. I saw him point the gun at Max," I tell her, my voice cracking.

Porter stares at me, her eyes boring deeply into my own so much that it's scary. "Listen to me, Alex. Murder is taken as a very serious accusation here. I know the history you have with this particular Enforcer, and I want to make sure that you're not doing it just as an act of revenge."

My eyes fix themselves her on hers, my stare equally as cold and intense as her own. "Let me make this clear to you: there is no reason behind this accusation other than he was the one I saw _holding the gun_. I would never lie, because avenging Max's death is much higher on my list than getting retribution for any wrongs done to me. Is that understood?"

"Of course." Porter appears to respect me for this statement as she backs off and assumes a more neutral tone. "Now. We're going to need a description of the murder eventually- you don't have to right now."

"I want to talk about Justin," Mitchie says, clearly aggravated just by saying the name.

"What about him?"

She sighs, and I finally get to see her truly upset. It's almost frightening to see the anger behind her eyes, probably because I have no idea how to handle that. "He started this. He alerted the Enforcers, he led them to the woods where we were, he stood by as they shot his brother!" She's furious now, but not like when I get furious. Her breathing has increased like mad, her entire body tensing, though she shows no signs of turning violent as I would have in this situation. It's weird for me to be the putting a hand on her arm to calm her down, rubbing her back to soothe her. Usually it's opposite.

"And you want to get him charged as an accessory?"

"Him or someone else," Mitchie mutters through gritted teeth.

"Well, I'll see what I can do," Porter assures us, standing up. "When you say Justin, do you mean your brother Justin?"

I nod, steadfast and stoic. "Yes. That's the one."

She jots this down and then extends her hand to us. Mitchie and I take this as a sign to get up and get gone. We both shake her hand before Mitchie says in a very heartfelt voice, "Thank you, Detective Porter. You have no idea how much this means to us."

"I can't possibly imagine, and I almost don't want to," she tells us in her very stern voice. That's probably a good assessment of our situation.

Just then, a knock comes on the door. Another officer I vaguely recognize from questioning the other day enters the room and gives a gruff nod at myself and Mitchie before addressing Porter. "Detective Porter, ma'am, Rodney Pritcham has just arrived here from Washington. He's in our custody right now."

Porter gives a curt nod as all the color drains out of Mitchie's face and she falters a little, taking a shaky step backward, a preamble to a fall. I catch her and put her upright. Just from having my hand on her back, I can feel the shallowness of her breathing, the rapid beats of air moving through her body. "Thank you, officer. I just have to-"

"Can I talk to him?" Mitchie's voice never wavers as the words hang in the air, a silence that is just waiting to be broken.

Eying her, Porter finally caves. "I suppose. We'd have to watch the whole conversation, though, and have a guard on the inside to keep him in line. You wouldn't have a private chat, we'd have to pull you out if things got too heated. Do you understand?"

She nods, more determined than I've ever seen her. "Yes. I still want to see him."

Porter whistles through her teeth. "You've got a helluva lotta nerve, kid."

"Alex has rubbed off on me," Mitchie replies, letting a small smirk take over her features. But only for a second.

"Speaking of Alex," Porter begins, "do you mind going with Joe here to take pictures of your scars for evidence? Then you can join us with Mr. Pritcham." I take a glance at Mitchie, who doesn't acknowledge me. She's off in her own little world, drawing upon whatever source of faith seems to inspire her. I still manage to marvel the faith she seems to find in all situations, the knowledge she has that everything will be alright.

With no cues from her, I'm forced to nod and pray that she can handle Rodney. Though with the look she has on her face right now, most doubts fly from my mind. "Alright. Show me the way, Joe."

Joe does not talk. Like, at all. He doesn't say a word on the way down there, instructs me to lift my shirt enough to get the shots, and then shows me to the room where Mitchie is with Rodney all in a little under 10 minutes. This guy is super efficient, which is good because I'm rushing back to get to Mitchie, to hope that she's still standing.

And she is. Standing, screaming, shouting while Rodney sits back and watches without a hint of remorse on his evil face. I am not prepared for the emotional upheaval that is seeing this fucking asshole's face. Joe seems to sense the rage welling inside of me because he takes a strong, firm grip on my arm and says, "Don't do anything stupid. Just watch."

My fingernails dig into the palms of my hand, probably leaving marks, as I look upon the heated scene unfolding in front of me.

"-and you think you can just get away with it!" Mitchie is screaming so loudly that I can hear her without the intercom system, which Margaret explained to me the other day.

Rodney leans back in his chair, totally nonchalant, and strokes the stubble of his beard. That bastard! I just want to- but instead of thinking about what I want to do, I just dig my fingernails in a little more and grind my teeth together. And listen. "I can get away with anything I want, honey. But with you, there ain't nothing to get away with."

Small fists slam on the table in front of her and a strong voice erupts from her throat. "Is that what you think? Fine! You can go straight to hell for all I care, but you'll never erase what you did! Deny it all you want, but it will still be there! _I'll_ still remember!"

The chair pushes forward, moving him toward the table again, his voice a whisper. "What will you still remember, Mitchie? Because honestly, my life has been pretty forgettable up to this point. Now..." A break in the speech, a sick smile crawling its way onto the guilty man's face. "Things are starting to get interesting."

"Oh, so raping me wasn't interesting!" Her voice grows with each word, the anger and the pain and the intensity all stepping up.

Miles of smiles slip and slide over his ever-changing expression as he tries to get under her skin without giving himself up. "Now, now, that sounds like it might be interesting. Too bad I never had the chance to." The guard sends warning glances to him, but he doesn't falter. "What a sad, sad story."

"Yours will be, once I get your ass thrown in jail." I've never heard her curse before. Ever. Thank God she picks now to become a total bitch like me.

His hands slide from the edges of the chair, pushing him to a standing position. "Guard, I don't want to talk to this slimy girl anymore. She's making me uneasy." That fucking bastard! Self-control leaves me as I pound my fists violently into the wall, imaging its his head. Joe instantly grabs me, throwing me into the position I've seen the police use to handcuff others.

"Keep that up, missy, and I'll have to throw you in jail for destruction of property," he mutters angrily. I only snarl in response, pressing my teeth together so hard I think they might crack. But I watch the drama in front of me finish in a final blaze of glory.

"You know what, Rodney? Fuck you."

He gets up, heading for the door in handcuffs. "Big words from such a tiny girl."

But she's smiling. _Smiling_. I can't begin to imagine why. "When you raped me, Rodney, you thought it would control me for my entire life. You thought I'd never overcome it, be mute forever. Well look at me now. I escaped from the very lifestyle you were trying to force me to succumb to, I caused a court case that could easily shut down the entire system, I got you pulled in for questioning, and I fell in love, the one thing that you never wanted for me!"

He can't keep the surprise, the near hurt, from his face. There's something about the last part that makes him writhe, like he's jealous she's moved on. _Jealous_. As if he ever had a chance in hell. "And who's the lucky fellow?"

A smirk of deadly sting finds its way onto her face. "_Her_ name is Alex."

"Well, fucking hell. Have a nice time in your twisted, sick-as-fuck relationship. Have fun roasting in Hell." But his face is contorted, in pain. Score for Mitchie.

"I look forward to seeing you there."

In an animalistic rage, he shrieks at Mitchie, the guard clamps hard on his arms, and she stares directly into his eyes.

And she says, "Just look at me now."


	24. Remember

Two months. Two months since Christmas. Two months and now we're finally ready for this horrible trial. Thanks to some intensive work from Detective Porter, they finally found a couple of kids who can back up Mitchie's story and even one of them who heard Rodney admitting to the crime, but not in exact words. There's no physical evidence left, though Porter thinks we can win this case because of who the two people involved are: Mitchie, who went silent for a year, had to be transferred from Cascadia, and finally escaped; and Rodney, who is one of the head-honchos at these places and just looks super sketchy. The jury is more likely to sympathize with Mitchie, according to Tom. He's confident that we can win that battle. Nailing my parents and Damien should be easy because of my scars and because they managed to find the gun, which is covered with his fingerprints. They think they might be able to get Rosslyn on accomplice charges of assault, which is what they're charging Rodney for when he whipped me. Most of the parents are claiming ignorance to what the Enforcers did to there children, and since most of those kids only got one or two lashings ten years ago, it's hard to prove that they were aware. What's really going to be difficult is getting Mitchie's parents. There is no doubt that their actions following Mitchie's rape fall under the category of child neglect, though it's not clear how much psychological and physical damage have been done to her because of it, and this is apparently what you have to prove to get them in jail or fined or whatever.

We've in South Carolina, living with Margaret. She can't legally adopt us yet because my parents are still waiting to have charges filed against them. Well, technically Mitchie's not legally hers yet, either, because we've spent two months tied up in the "shithole that is the American legal system." That's what Tom calls it, anyway. Margaret says that he only feels that because he has to deal with it and every day and it's really not that bad as he makes it out to be. Although I'm kind of inclined to agree with Tom; it took them two months to arrest some idiots I could've beaten into coma in about an hour. I know they have all these rules and they're all important and stuff, but sometimes it's hard to follow them. _Really_ hard.

Today, we're driving up from South Carolina back to Illinois. To be honest, it was nice to live in a real house again. The hotel room got old and cramped fairly quickly, and Margaret had a fairly spacious house for someone who lived on her own. She told us that her parents used to live their with her until she finally gave in and sent them to a nursing home, and she proceeded to tell us what a nursing home is. It's kind of weird, to think about other people taking care of someone like that. More weird to think that those people would even want to be alive anymore, not being able to do anything for themselves. But whatever. That's not the point.

We've actually been driving there for the past two days, pausing frequently to stop at American landmarks. Margaret wants us to be immersed in our new culture as much as possible, which is why she forced us every night to watch TV with her from 8-10 as well as the news in the mornings. I now can name the President of the United States, several theories on the death of Michael Jackson, the function and current controversy about the Supreme Court Justices, and all members of the Simpsons family. This is supposedly turning me into a normal American teenager. Though that's some grade-A bullshit right there. Mitchie and I will never be normal American teenagers, no matter how many pop culture jokes we can throw out there.

Crossing over the border to the state of Illinois is so strange. On one hand, I feel a certain sense of familiarity, which is comforting enough. But then I remember everything that has happened here, every bit of good and bad and all the memories I've ever had save for the past two months have been in this state. It's freakish to say the least, to be coming back. I don't really know how all of this will play out, and I'm almost scared to learn the answer. Mostly because of Mitchie's parents. As much as it kills me to admit it, I would break into a stream of tears all over that courtroom if they told me that Mitchie would have to go and live with her parents. And that, needless to say, would be horrible.

"You girls ready?" Margaret asks quietly as we drive along the empty Illinois countryside. There is only a quiet "oldie's" radio station playing, Mitchie and myself too full of emotion to do much but think. She's up in the passenger seat next to Margaret, me back here by myself and a bunch of our stuff.

Mitchie shrugs lightly, just so that I can barely see the movement. "That's hard to answer. Some things you'll never be ready for, but you have no choice but to do them. I think I feel like that right now."

"Me, too," I mumble from the back seat. "Except for Justin. I'm ready to see my brother squirm. I'm ready to see him get what he deserves."

Margaret sighs. I can tell from her general attitude that she's chewing on her lip, which is what she does whenever she's trying to think of how exactly to put her words. "I just can't see him doing that on purpose... if he's too much of a wuss to stand up to the Enforcers like y'all did, how's he gonna lead them to you on purpose when they've got a gun to kill his brother?"

"Because he'd be too afraid after he panicked to stop them. Plus, he probably thought they were aiming at his sister," I mutter bitterly. Today is not a good day for me. I have managed to upset myself and kill the conversation all in one sentence. Smooth, Alex. How many more hours?

It turns out that four hours later we reach our destination: Tom's house. The trial doesn't actually start until tomorrow, but Tom and Margaret both insist that we have a day to rest from our travels. Plus, I have somewhere to go today. Somewhere special.

Tom's outside watering his plants when we pull up. As it's only early March, there isn't much growing, though I do remember him saying he enjoys gardening to keep his mind of things. I don't really know if spraying water counts as gardening, though. At any rate, he's excited to see us, holding up a finger and running back into the house so fast you almost think he'll trip on something.

Margaret pulls her car up in the driveway, shaking her head as both she and Mitchie giggle at his antics. Even I crack a smile. It's good to be home.

Tom hurries back out, a couple of presents in his hands. Four, to be exact. It looks like he's wrapped them hastily. As we get out of the car, he says, "Because my Christmas presents sucked ass."

"We don't need no presents, Tom," Margaret laughs. "We're just glad to see you."

He looks at her in mock disbelief. "Moi? Little old moi?"

Mitchie can't hold it in anymore and jumps into his arms, causing him to drop the presents to the ground. "Sorry," she giggles into his shoulder. He doesn't even seem to notice them in his damp grass because of this moment. I think Mitchie has begun to look up to Margaret and Tom as mother and father figures, which is only natural, I suppose. They have been taking care of us like that. Tom even found time once a month to meet us halfway for a weekend trip. I have formed a bound with them as well, but not in a parental way like Mitchie. I'm pretty much done with parents, and according to the laws of the United States I get to be officially done with them in about 11 months.

Margaret has joined the group hug and I look at them, smiling. I've never been one for hugs other than those that involve Mitchie and only Mitchie. "Don't want in on it, kiddo?" Tom says jokingly. "Could really use the manly support over here."

"Don't be an asshole, Tom." I'm laughing, though. Tom has taken to speaking me like I'm his long-lost son who he has to instruct on proper manly things, but I don't mind. He's told me about all these karate moves he's learned and how to use them to my advantage as well as good fighting style if I'm ever caught in a tight situation. He promised to tell me how to throw a football and play baseball when we got here. Margaret thinks he's going to take me fishing next. She finds mine and Tom's entire relationship fairly amusing, but it's better than chilling with her and Mitchie and learning about make up. I don't understand it. We were allowed to wear it at Havenwood for the courtship dance, but nowhere near as elaborate as it is here. I think Mitchie looks better without it seeing as how totally fake it looks, though Margaret thinks I can only see it as fake since I've almost never seen it in my life.

"No worries here," he jokes as he releases Mitchie and Margaret. "You wanna throw the football now?"

My mood turns somber, as I've planned this answer. "No. There's something I else I need to do before the fun."

Tom leans down and picks up one of the gifts. He puts it in my hand, his covering mine. "This is for him."

"Thanks."

The graveyard is empty when we reach it, not a soul in sight. Margaret leaves Mitchie and I to let us go on our own. She never really knew Max, so she feels like she's invading. She only got to see him die, and in some way, I suppose it's worse to see someone you never knew die, someone you only got to see struggle. It makes you have a hard time believing that person was ever happy. And to be honest, I don't know how often he ever was. But I'm done with that now- it's in the past, for the most part. As much as I can, I've put it behind me. Now I'm bringing it back to the forefront. Seems dumb, I know, but all three of them think I should for various reasons: Tom thinks I should go to get closure, Margaret thinks it will give me strength for the trial, and Mitchie thinks it will help me to remember him. I haven't forgot Max- I don't think I possibly can- so I don't really understand her reason. But she says when we reach his grave, I'll understand. I hope she's right.

Max's grave lies somewhere in the far back, close enough to the other gravestones that it doesn't look random but far enough away so that he looks a bit isolated. As soon as I can read the very fresh engraving on his grave, unexpected tears spring from my eyes and nearly every bit of willpower leaves me. I feel my feet attempting to shuffle back to Margaret's waiting car, to go learn how to play football with Tom. To be anywhere but here.

I'm not getting away that easily, however, because Mitchie clamps her hand on my arm, slowly moving it into my own hand. "You can't turn back now, Alex."

"Can so," I mutter, though I know she's right because she'll beat me into pulp if I try.

"I won't let you."

Max's grave doesn't say much, not like I can really read what it does say through my tears. But I can make out the three lines that Tom purchased for him just before we left for South Carolina.

_Maximilian James Russo_

_December 7, 1996- December 4, 2009_

_Brave and Loved_

I can't stop the waterworks from falling as I brush my fingers against the words. Nothing I have to say seems fit for him to hear, because I know he's listening. My other hand slides over the grass as I realize his body is buried beneath us in an eternal sleep. And then I remember everything: every little detail that has never crossed my mind for the past two months comes back in vivid detail. I see his face in my mind, larger than life, more colorful and animated than ever before. I remember how he smiled, how he lit up, how he didn't like peanut butter, how he used to be so full of energy as a toddler, how he barely spoke, how I helped him to speak again. Mitchie was right: sitting here, I do remember everything.

Including Tom's present. Slowly, I unwrap it with trembling fingers. My tears drip onto the wrapping paper and the object, tainting them both with water marks. Mitchie sits down next to me, scooting close enough so that her hand can rest on my knee.

"I love you, Max," I say with a shaky voice. I'm not shaky about the meaning behind those words, but at the loss of the boy who I'm saying them to. I take out Tom's gift and open it, beginning at the first page.

"'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...'"


	25. Court

Bright sun flows through the large windows of the courthouse, splaying itself across the shining wood that covers nearly every inner surface. People, all in nice clothes, fill every chair of the room as they speak in hushed whispers almost as though speaking should not be allowed. Peeking out the window, my eyes catch the glints of television cameras and news vans in the bright sun. It feels like spring has decided to make its appearance today with its brilliant sun and soft heat. It feels wrong.

Mitchie, Margaret, and Tom sit behind our prosecutors, the legal team of Mark, Joanne, and Henry, all of whom Tom knows from other court cases he's participated in. On the other side, my parents sit with their legal team as well as Justin, Rosslyn, Todd, Damien, and the other Shepherds. Apparently this is just Damien's murder trial- they can't bring everyone in under one blanket charge. Right now, we're trying to get Damien on murder and Justin, Todd, Rosslyn, and one other Enforcer charged as accessories. Because he was a minor when the crime occurred, Justin's sentence will be much less than the others. That fucking bastard. I can't wait to hear him talk, can't wait for this shit to end.

Someone announces that the trial is about to commence and that we should return to our seats. I clumsily plop myself down next to Mitchie, who immediately puts her hand into mine. Judging by her already watery eyes and my already rising anger, I think this is how they will stay.

A man sitting next to the judge's podium stands up and booms, "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the criminal trial of Damien Rutgers in the murder of Maximilian Russo. He is charged with first degree murder. In addition, Justin Russo, Todd Hastings, Rosslyn Grey, and Timothy Jameson are all charged as accessories to murder. Justin Russo is to be charged as a minor. And now I present the presiding judge, Judge Elaine Montoya."

The entire court room rises in a swift motion as Elaine Montoya enters. She is sharp-looking and intense- and clearly eager to start if the speed of her walk is any indication. She sits down in the high chair, and we all return to our seats. I can literally feel my heart beating inside my chest with all the anticipation that hangs in the stale air of this room. She shushes us, takes the gavel in her hand, points to Henry.

"If the prosecution would please make its opening statement." Her voice, too, resounds strong throughout the courtroom. I shoot a quick glance to Rosslyn to see how she's taking it, but there's no expression on her face save for a determined jaw line. I should've known. All it does is make my grip on Mitchie's hand tighten. But she's figured out that when I tighten my grip, she should loosen hers in order to break the contact, to reinforce that my anger is a bad thing. Which I don't think it always is. But whatever. She knows a hell of a lot more about people than I do.

Henry stands up. He doesn't look nearly as nervous as I feel like he should. Nothing shakes: not his voice, not his hands, not his body as he delivers his statement. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I ask you to think not only on this one specific murder trial, but on this entire affair. The psychological and physical damage done to these children is apparent to anyone who has recently watched the news. And now we learn that one has been murdered in the name of protecting the society that had already caused the child harm. He was just four days shy of thirteen, the day he was murdered, on his way to escaping the life he hated. And now, thanks to these people, he will never get to experience the freedom he so long fought for. Throughout this case, I urge you not to think of the murderer, but of the little boy who lost his life at the hands of this man." He returns to his seat, looking completely infuriated. Not by what he said, though; I'm fairly certain his anger is channeled at Damien. I know that mine is. That fucking ass, sitting there all stoic. I'm finding it difficult to contain my anger again. It's hard to look at him.

"And now the defense is free to make its statement," Judge Montoya says.

A female lawyer rises for the defense. Unlike everyone else in the room, she does not look convicted in her cause, but simply completely without expression. "As the prosecution did, I would like to start out with a question: wouldn't it be easier just to believe that this man acted out of malice, killing this little boy? Of course it would. But there are other forces at work here that are perhaps difficult for us to understand as we were not there-"

"_I_ was there," I grumble under my breath. "_I_ saw him kill my brother."

Mitchie kisses me on the cheek. "I know that, Alex. And the jury does, too. Just look at them."

Tuning out the rest of the defense's statement, I let my eyes wander to the jury. They're all dubiously staring at the lawyer, not buying into her cryptic words. I'm pretty sure that the lawyer herself doesn't buy her statement.

Judge Elaine Montoya can't show any emotion. "We will start out with the prosecution. Who would you like to call to the stand?"

Mark sends me a glance, just to make sure I'm ready. I give him a nod. "The prosecution would like to call Alexandra Russo to the stand."

With one last squeeze from Mitchie, I let her hand go and take my steps to the stand. Mark briefed me on the questions that they would be asking me and told me how the whole process would work beforehand, so in theory I shouldn't be close to breaking down. But I am.

As soon as I reach the stand, Mark begins to fire off questions. He knows that I want to be off there as quickly as possible, and I asked him to do a sort of rapid-fire deal with me. "Ms. Russo, you were there the night of the shooting?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell me your original plan for that night?"

I sigh, nearly terrified to recall the events out loud. It could've been so _perfect_. "Me, my brother, and my friend Mitchie were all going to escape after we saw the guards pass by our house. Then we were going to run through the woods to the fence that surrounds the compound. Once we got to the outside world, we were going to go to the police for help."

"So none of you were carrying anything that could have been misconstrued as a weapon of some sort?" Mark keeps pacing as he questions me, like he's taking the answers in and processing them.

I shake my head. "No. We weren't carrying anything. Mitchie and I were both in dresses, and Max was wearing pants and a shirt. We didn't take anything with us."

"The guards then caught up with you in the woods. Is that correct?"

"Yes." I'm not sure if I can his name without spitting it out like a poison. "We heard_ Justin_ shouting from the direction of the house. I'm not sure if he was inside or outside. We started running through the woods. Then, someone fired a gun. Me, Mitchie, and Max stopped to Damien holding the gun. I couldn't see anyone else. We dodged, and..."

"And then he shot your brother?" Mark's voice barely grows above a whisper, but it's overridden by the voice of the defense's female lawyer.

"Objection!" she shouts from her chair.

"Denied," Judge Montoya replies and turns to Mark. "Continue." I have no idea what that exchange means, but it causes Mark to smile, which has to be a good thing.

"Did you see him shoot your brother?" His voice is a little louder now, the volume of a strong whisper.

My voice cracks quietly on one word. "Yes."

Mark faces Judge Montoya and does a half-bow. "No further questions, Your Honor."

"Defense, would you like to cross-examine the witness?" Montoya asks the lawyer.

She nods curtly and stands. "Most certainly, Your Honor." I hear her heels clip against the floor as she walks over, the stilettos sounding loudly throughout the silent chamber. "Alexandra, is it?"

"I prefer Alex." I don't like this woman. She's an asshole.

"On the night that you attempted to escape, was there a large of amount of moonlight?"

I'm caught off guard by her question. "I guess. Enough for me to see his face."

"And you said you couldn't see the others?"

"Not their faces. I wasn't really focused on anyone but him." I feel anger replacing my other emotions, and I will my body to keep itself in check. As much fun as it would be to strangle this woman, I really can't.

"Interesting. Then how are you sure that it was Damien?"

"With all due respect, _ma'am_, Damien has been whipping me for the past three years as punishment. And anyone can tell you I was punished _a lot_. I think I'd recognize him anywhere." I stare her down, though she doesn't react.

"Are you sure that the anger you must feel towards this man didn't cause you to see him holding the gun?" she asks. Unlike Mark, she doesn't pace around but stays stock still in one place. Her feet are anchored to the ground.

I have to choke back a laugh. "As much as I hate Damien, I hate Rosslyn more. If I was hallucinating, it would have been her face holding that gun."

The female lawyer chews on her lip, clearly trying to figure out something else to ask me. But I can see the defeat in her eyes. Ha! Take that, defense! "No further questions."

The day wears on much like this, the ebb and flow of the interrogations matching my changes in mood. Mitchie gets called up to the stand, but they don't really learn much from her. She didn't see his face, and she's really lucky for that. Damien's eyes have been appearing in my dreams recently, followed by the crack of a gun. Then I wake up. It's been disturbing Mitchie's sleep, but she never complains or acknowledges it.

After Mitchie's testimony, her hand never leaves mine. We sit close together, our scared breaths mingling together and hair brushing against each others. No one's testimony really proves as much as mine did. Even Damien's. They dance around the subject, trying to prove more that he was just performing his duty rather than knowingly committing a murder. It's not working. It's making my blood boil.

And then, Mark does something _way_ out of the ordinary. "I'd like to call Justin Russo to the stand." Hushed murmuring returns to the audience as Justin confusedly makes his way over to the stand.

I lean over to hit Mark on the shoulder before he leaves. "What do you think you're doing?" I hiss. "He's on their side!"

Mark taps his head like he's been thinking. "I got it all in here. Just trust me, Alex." I have no other choice. He meanders up to the podium, looking all proud and smug with his little plan. I sure hope he knows what he's doing. But according to Tom, he's one of the greatest lawyers out there, so I'm gonna guess he knows his stuff.

His intimidating walk seems to be doing its job at least: Justin's fiddling awkwardly with his tie as he sits there, eyes flying everywhere but Mark. "How are you doing today, son?"

"Nervous," Justin mutters honestly, though I think pretty much everyone else has noticed that.

Mark nods. "Well, I'll make this quick, then. You were the one who alerted the, er, Enforcers the night your brother was murdered?"

"I didn't know they were going to kill him!" Justin's voice is frenzied as he grips the sides of his chair with white knuckles.

"I know. You can't get in trouble for saying something like that," Mark soothes. "Really. What happened after you sounded the alarm, though- that's what you can get in trouble for. What did you do, Justin, after the alarm-"

"Nothing!" he screeches, his voice reaching a higher pitch. "I went outside! I found them! They-they-" He has tears streaking down the sides of his face, and I don't know quite what to feel right now. Everything about him screams confusion, each bit of his clothing becoming more and more frazzled by the second. "They made me go with them! I went! And- and- and- they SHOT HIM! They shot my brother!"

"And what happened before that?" Mark continues to utilize his gentle, calming tone.

"We got to the trees! And he-" Justin points a shaking, accusatory finger at Damien- "got out a gun! Because of what _she_-" he turns the finger to Rosslyn- "said! And then I tried to stop them... I-I tried... But he grabbed me!" His finger finally reaches the other Enforcer, Timothy. I feel a slight stream of tears coming down my face. I can't believe it... my brother, trying to fight the Enforcers. "I t-t-tried to get away, but I couldn't! I just couldn't!"

Mark has to fight hard to keep his cool. "So you didn't want them to shoot your brother?"

"No!" The power of that word is so pronounced that I feel myself hit the back of my seat with a slight force as though he pushed me. He's becoming wild now, his hands flailing everywhere as he makes excessive movements with his lips, like he's trying to say more than what he can actually get out. "And, and people are going to say I wanted him to shoot my sister, but I didn't! I don't!" He stares accusingly at the audience in such a way that gives the impression of fierce determination even with his intense tears, tears that match the rhythm of the ones streaking down my face at this very moment. Watching this testimony is like having someone press his foot on my chest and slowly lift it up, so that I can only get a real breath once it's over.

"Why didn't you want your siblings to get caught?" Mark tries not to look at Justin while he says this for fear his strong facade might crumble like a majority of the audience's has.

"Because they're family!" he explodes, leaping up and holding onto the front of the stand. The police officers on the side ready themselves for action. "If there was one lesson I learned at Havenwood, it's that you love your family no matter what! I love my brother and, yes, I love my sister, too!"

The pain, joy, sadness, anger, hate, jealousy, love I feel all at that statement allow something I never thought I'd ever say slip out of my mouth. "I love you, too, Justin." But it's not loud enough for anyone but Mitchie to hear. Like she did on Christmas Eve, she crushes me against her chest, holding me with the desperation of an injured soldier clinging to a nurse. In reality, Justin is no different than I am: he tried to help his brother, but it got messed up. He tried to save him, but he couldn't.

"And sometimes it feels like Alex is the only one left, because my parents don't even care anymore! They don't care that their youngest son is dead and their only daughter hates them!" His voice continues to escalate, both in loudness and pitch. "I sounded that alarm to save our family! I _wanted_ us to work together! I wanted us to love each other again! But now that will never happen!"

His confusion turns to shock as though he's just realized the exact gravity of that statement. The crazed anger and tears stop flowing through his body for just a moment as he holds that expression for a split-second, one frame of a camera.

And then he cries. He cries like I cried the night I found out Max was dead, right after I tried to destroy myself with the glass. He cries like Mitchie did the night I found her in the bathroom, hopeless and broken. He cries with his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. And he cries with enough volume to silence the entire courthouse.

At that moment, in my heart, there is a small thought planted, a small start towards forgiveness.


	26. Finale

**A/N: This is the last chapter. I thank you all for sticking with this story the whole time. You guys are awesome!**

The recess from the court is tearing me apart. Mitchie and I are alone in the bathroom, her leaning against the wall and me sitting on the sink. We haven't spoken since we got in here, and I think she's waiting for me to make the first move. This new development rips my soul into little bits and sprinkles them over the bathroom floor in such a way that I can't tell the difference between them and the tiles. I have stopped crying now because it doesn't seem like something I should be crying over, more like something I should be thinking over. I mean, he's Justin. He's an asshat who abandoned me as a small child to fend for myself. Which made me the Alex Russo I am today- definitely an accomplishment I am proud of. And then he's been trying to help us all these years. But I don't know why he needed to be an overachiever to bring our family back together all in one piece. So, I ask the resident people-person: Mitchie.

"To give you something to bond over," she immediately snaps out with. "I've been thinking on it, since he said it. I think he was trying to bring your family together by giving you something to be proud of, so everyone could say, 'Look at those Russos. They have a great son, and they're all a family.' Granted, a bit misguided, but he was trying. More than your parents ever did."

I hop down from the counter, tripping into her waiting arms. "I know... Maybe this will be over soon, and I'll get to talk to him. I'll make it better."

"That's my girl."

The moment we get back to the courtroom, the defense requests another day. They want to fiddle with the evidence some more, fix the damage that Justin's testimony had done. And to be honest, I feel just numb enough not to wonder what will happen to him now. They probably can prove somehow that Timothy held him back from attacking Damien, though I don't know if our side can prove that Rosslyn convinced Damien to use the gun. Judge Montoya grants them the delay, she herself still clearly shocked by what my brother said. I let my emotions swirl through my blood, let them ride upon each and every nerve as though it were a delightful ride. This makes me feel no better and no worse as we all begin an exhausted car ride back to Tom's house.

Even though it's dinnertime, no one wants to eat. Pasta is cooked and set out in dishes for myself and Mitchie, but neither of us bother touching it. Mitchie sits with her hands folded neatly on her lap as I pick at the spaghetti with my fork. Margaret and Tom leave us at the table, telling us to cook whatever we feel like. I know that they're going to sit on the old swing in Tom's backyard, talk some shit out, and I don't want to be there when that happens. But I don't want to be here, either.

Antsy, I drop my fork to the table with a clang and push the chair out with too much force.

Mitchie, ever the good girlfriend, stares at me with concerned eyes. "What's wrong, Alex?"

"Nothing," I grumble. "I just want to go for a walk. Come with me." The last sentence is more of me begging and less of an angry tone than the other, so much more heart put into it.

Without saying anything the two of us set out down the little road through Tom's secluded suburban neighborhood. No words are exchanged for the first ten minutes or so of the walk as I just tried to come down from the high I received from this whole trial. Not like an amazingly awesome high, but more of a high where the world swirls around me and I can't quite tell which way's up and which way's down. I can walk just fine, but once again I hardly know what's going on in my life. So much has been feeling like that recently, entire chunks of my life that I see as though I were watching a film and not like I was there. Justin's testimony is throwing me through an endless loop, a succession of complications that I can't explain. Bits and pieces of my body take sides of varying degree over the issue and I don't know which ones are right. Torn and detached, I feel like dying.

"Why is it always easier to hate than to love?" I ask it aloud, hoping Mitchie will have a brilliant, mind-blowing explanation.

She doesn't. She has on of those cryptic ones she whips out all the time. "Love takes effort; it's much harder to find something to love about someone than to find a singular trait you dislike, which is enough to hate someone. People just are that way."

"But what about when it changes? Like, you hate someone, and then they give you a reason to love them."

"When hate is real, it can be way too strong to overcome sometimes. Other times, love is stronger. It's too hard to tell which cases will end up which way," Mitchie tells me, my face still way too moody for its own good.

"You believe it, though," I whisper quietly. "You believe that everything's going to be alright, no matter what."

Mitchie shrugs at me as though her thought-system is totally normal, something I shouldn't even need to question. "And?"

"_How_ do you do that? How do you always know? Do you, like, pray for miracles or something? Do you still believe in God after all this time?" I would find it difficult to buy into this idea, but then again I find it hard to buy into the idea that she could possibly have faith in anything.

"When things got that bad, there was never another option," Mitchie mutters like she's embarrassed to admit that weakness out loud. "If I didn't have faith that somehow things would get better, I wouldn't be standing here today." And neither would I, probably. What a scary idea, how thoughts can change lives so much. "I don't have faith in anything in particular, I don't believe in the Christian God or any of the other ones Margaret told us about."

"Then what _do_ you believe in? Like, who gives you this massive amount of faith?"

Befuddled, Mitchie turns to face me. "You know, I really don't have a clue. But whatever it is, it gets me through." I nod, not being able to concoct a better explanation for that. I only hoped that her faith could see me through this trial.

The trial starts up fresh the next morning and I put on a strong front. I don't feel strong. Pointless testimonies from Todd, Rosslyn, Damien and all of them take up hours and I just sit on my butt, listening. It's fairly clear from the mumblings and the shoddy evidence presented by the defense that we're going to win on all counts, except for possibly Justin. The defense shows up with a photo taken just after they raided the camp showing large bruises on his arms that a forensic scientist tells us are consistent with the type of bruising Justin would have sustained from being forcibly held the way he was. I can't find it in myself to care. There's just something about this- I need confirmation of his new found personality, I need to see what I saw when we were kids come back into his eyes. I need to know that he's _Justin_ again.

Agonizing hours tick by as I watch the people testify on the stand, trying to save themselves. They shouldn't even bother. The verdict was decided when we got into the courthouse this morning. Mitchie occasionally whispers comments in my ear, but I find it hard to concentrate on anyone who isn't Justin. He's so afraid of going to jail or wherever it is they send kids, the fear plain on his face. At least he isn't trying to hide anymore. The surprise of the trial comes when Rosslyn admits to giving Damien the gun.

Mark's been dancing around the question for a while now, but Rosslyn doesn't give him anything. This is his last ditch attempt. "So did you give Damien the gun?"

As though shocked he would ever doubt this, Rosslyn recoils. "Of course I did!" Her shock radiates throughout the courtroom, and I know that even in her darkest hour she is _still_ putting on an act to impress us all. If I didn't fucking hate her so much, I would feel bad for her. "And I will not hesitate to admit it, no matter what the consequences! This is God's work, and I will continue to do to! I will not lie in the eyes of the Lord!" Her fiery little words inflame me, almost triggering another one of my anger fits. Mitchie's there to save me again with another kiss on my neck. The way my body responds to hers is so calming it would be freaky if I didn't absolutely love it so much.

Immediately, the stoic woman on the defense's team bolts up. "My client has entered a plea bargain!"

Rosslyn turns to the woman with a face. "A what?"

"Accepted," Judge Montoya says in the background. And there goes the end of the trial. The one question mark has been answered, and we all know how the rest of the trial will go. Mark faces us to give a brief two thumbs up before looking at the judge.

"Your Honor, the prosecution would like to rest its case." No one is really surprised at this, though they probably should be since this is a really short trial by Tom's standards.

Stunned, Judge Montoya replies, "OK... If you would both make your closing statements..."

The closing statements aren't even worth mentioning: Henry recounts the key evidence from the trial while the woman on the defense makes a final effort, mostly to get Justin off as he pretty much handed everyone else their sentences on a silver platter and Rosslyn entered a plea bargain. So the jury leaves to deliberate, and I still feel nothing. I can't understand why I'm so nonchalant about this; it all feels so surreal. I'm thinking that I'll snap out of this zombie phase the moment I see Justin outside of this stuffy room, and we get the chance to mend our relationship. Maybe then I'll become human again.

"You OK, Alex?" Mitchie asks. I can tell by the darkness under her eyes that the stress is getting to her, that's she so worried about the outcome of this trial and her parents' later. But there is still that strange little light shining in her eyes that I don't think will ever go out.

"Yeah. I feel kind of numb, actually. You?"

"I'm scared," she admits as though it's a big secret.

I kiss her behind the ear and smile cornily at her. "Have a little faith." She hits me playfully on the arm and then we return to silence. There is nothing more to discuss because at this moment nothing else matters but the outcome of this trial. My brain should be racing right now, but it's not. Yesterday's high still dominates my thought process and nothing registers with me, save for the blatant tears on Justin's face.

And not more than a half an hour later, the jurors return. The lead juror stands to read the comments and sentences of the jury as everyone stares at her as though their lives depend upon it. "The jury finds Damien Rutgers, Rosslyn Grey, Todd Hastings, and Timothy Jameson guilty on all counts. The jury also finds Justin Russo to be cleared of all charges and proclaimed innocent." I should be filled with intense jubilation as the entire courtroom erupts into shouts and Judge Montoya's pleas for order are lost in the circus. But all I can feel is the warmth of Mitchie hugging me tightly, crying, "It's over, it's over."

"Yeah. Let's go." I am filled with a sudden urge to locate Justin and play for him the reel of emotions I've been having since this thing started. We don't have to go far as he's leaning against the side of the room below a window. "Justin..." I'm unsure of what to say as the worlds comes back to me, filling me up with its love and hate and joy and fear and sadness and anger and forgiveness.

"Lucky me, huh? I'm free." He doesn't sound happy. "Here to pound on me for killing our brother? Because I deserve it."

The shared, yet morbid, connection we obtain over Max's death is enough to push me into his waiting arms. "We both do, or maybe we both don't. But believe me- I know where you went." It's very strange to bond with your brother over suicide attempts, but I'll take what I can get right now. "Are you here, Justin, the boy I used to know?"

He's a thrown off-guard by the question as I am; I can tell by the shift in his body but his words come out instantly. "Yes. I'm here. I'm family. Because Mom and Dad aren't any more. It's you and me..._ Alex_." The use of my preferred name is enough for us both to burst into tears and cling to each other desperately. I realize that though I've hugged Justin on multiple occasions for family events and propriety's sake, this is the first time I've held onto him as though he is my brother.

"Family... family's not blood, Justin," I ramble. My high has come down so quickly and I don't know what to do with all the excess emotion save for dressing it up as some pretty words. "I mean, that's part of it, but that's not the important part. It's... a feeling somewhere inside, that there's safety. That when you're here, you're home."

He releases me at this just so he can stare me straight in the eyes, and it's in his eyes that I see my brother again. "I know."

Mitchie takes this as the appropriate time to kiss me on the cheek and engulf me in a hug. "I'm so proud of you, Alex. I love you."

"I love you, too." Tears are pouring down my cheeks, but I don't care. None of us do anymore.

As we let go, I can see that Justin senses the deeper nature of our relationship. Confused and out of his element, he somehow finds it in himself to simply shrug and say, "I don't understand it, but I can accept it."

It is in that moment that all of my worries and doubts about Mitchie's parents, our adoption, Justin's life, my and Justin's relationship, and every other unsolved question in my tumultuous life suddenly doesn't matter. I feel the faith that has kept Mitchie going all these years, I get the sense that everything _will_ be alright. So I guess I do have a little faith after all- because what is faith, really, but the belief in hope.


End file.
